


The Earth Below My Feet (Lessons in Parachuting for the Troubled Mind)

by fiorediloto



Series: The Earth Below My Feet [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-12 15:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18449693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorediloto/pseuds/fiorediloto
Summary: Part of him knew that it would always be like this with Nix, the constant feeling of being on edge, missing the earth below his feet. Perhaps he’d touch the ground safe and sound this time, both legs intact, but there would be another jump and another and another, and he would never know which jump would be the one to break his neck.Then again, his mother had seen right through him with the whole paratrooper thing: forget the money, forget the glory, forget being with the best of the best. Deep down, he had a reckless streak.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based heavily on Dick Winter's _Beyond Band of Brothers_ and Larry Alexander's _Biggest Brother_ , in that most of the non-canon scenes and the general timeline of events come from either or both (with some help from Stephen Ambrose's _Band of Brothers_ ). I chose to treat the books as fictional works complementary to the series. The characters depicted in the story are the BoB characters or semi-original ones inspired by names and facts described in the books.  
> To sum it up, this is not about the real-life veterans and the people close to them. None of this is true. If it's true, it's not mine :D
> 
> A word of thanks for my maour [Sarabakanashimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarabakanashimi/pseuds/sarabakanashimi), who has been my very first and most encouraging reader despite not knowing the first thing about this fandom, and for my beta-reader, the truly amazing [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/pseuds/Impala_Chick), who devoted a totally unreasonable amount of her time to beating this fic into shape. I claim intellectual property rights for any outstanding mistakes.  
>    
> \---  
> Title from Mumford and Sons' _Below My Feet_.  
> Opening quote from Simon & Garfunkel's _The Boxer_ (the Concert in Central Park version).  
> \---

_After changes upon changes_  
_We are more or less the same_  


 

 

**_11 September 1942, Camp Toccoa_ **

 

In retrospect, hearing the news from someone other than Nix should have struck Dick as funny.

He had assumed that the night would be a quiet one: dinner taken care of, he would sit outside by the gym until sunset, enjoy the refreshing drop in temperature, and then cash in enough sleep to shoulder Sobel’s morning unpleasantness without giving away his growing dislike.

Three weeks in and Dick was starting to think that Sobel may not have a point to make, after all. Maybe he was not the tough but wise master that they would come to thank one day. Maybe he just liked torturing them.

That Friday had been a Currahee day, hot and humid like the week before it, and after the three miles down the day had continued with such an unforgiving PT session that Dick had found himself exhausted and more than one man comatose. Three times in a row now, Friday had been the worst day of the week, as if Sobel were afraid that the weekend pass would lull his men into complacency—or maybe he just wanted to punish them in advance for future misbehaviors.

Dick’s ears were still ringing with the shrillest notes in Sobel’s voice. He could count himself lucky that on that particular day Sobel had only reserved him some perfunctory remarks on his pull-up technique ( _All the way down, Winters, officers in my company don’t get a discount_ ), focusing instead on pushing all the buttons of his favorites: Taylor, Ranney, Guarnere, and especially Nixon.

Already after a handful of weeks there was something irreparably damaged between Nix and Sobel, and it had nothing to do with Sobel fearing Nix’s competition like he did Dick’s. Dick suspected that it had to do with their disparate backgrounds, maybe less because Nix was a charming, rich Yalie with a sharp tongue and more because Sobel secretly resented him for it.

Sure enough, at the beginning Sobel had tried to break him like any other soldier in his care, with the same impersonal contempt, a measure of which he had in his heart for everybody. But while other men cowered under the fire or fumed silently, content with dreaming of taking a piss in Sobel’s morning coffee, Nix was different. Nix with permission to speak was like one of those faulty, old-timey grenades which might or might not explode when set off, and with a tendency to do so while still hot in your hands.

Dick hadn’t heard the whole exchange from the start, preoccupied as he was with getting his own workout right. But as soon as he got on his feet he was immediately aware of something going on: about five rows down, amidst the men of 2nd Platoon who were either still down to complete the last series of push-ups or sitting on the ground to catch their breath, Nixon stood at attention, Sobel mere inches from his face.

“Lieutenant Nixon seems to be under the impression that this gathering here is a cocktail party. Is that what it looks like to you, Lieutenant? A cocktail party?”

“No, sir. No cocktails whatsoever.”

“Then what is that on your face, Lieutenant?”

“My nose, sir.”

Someone behind Dick sniggered.

“Lieutenant, are you familiar with Colonel Sink’s orders on shaving hygiene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s have them.”

“ _You shave every morning for the men and if you want to shave every evening for the women, that is up to you_. Sir.”

“Are you disobeying the Colonel’s direct orders, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“Then explain why the hell you have a monkey’s ass on your face!ʼ

“It grew back, sir.”

“You grew a monkey’s ass on your face in a morning, Lieutenant?”

Up until that point Nix’s voice had been calm, as he withstood the assault with serene, ironic detachment. However he sounded sour when he replied the next time.

“I guess you could put it that way, sir.”

“That’s astounding, Lieutenant. Perhaps we should phone up the local zoo and see if they can make use of your talents. What do you say?”

Dick cringed and imagined his cringing as a wave, as if a collective feeling of discomfort flowed through the men in close proximity to the scene. The guy behind him sniggered again, but his neighbor must have elbowed him viciously, because he ended it short with a pained groan. 2nd Platoon was in love with Nixon, because he was considerate and decent, swore like a sailor and could hold his alcohol like a bull. They were all thinking the same thing. This was not right.

There was a moment of silence as thick as syrup, where the sweat on each brow seemed to run slower.

Later the men would say that here Lieutenant Nixon smiled his best, most charming smile. Johnny Martin, who was standing right next to him, said that Nixon had sighed and shaken his head as if to say: _The things you make me do._ The words were heard loud and clear by twenty-five men at least.

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” Nix said. “They tell me their prized baboon ran away last month.”

Sobel flushed as one, two, ten men started laughing raucously. It was so much worse, Dick thought, because it inflamed Sobel even more.

“Silence! You men are a disgrace.” Sobel marched down the line to Dick’s spot. “Lieutenant Winters.”

“Yes, sir,” Dick said, standing at attention.

“2nd Platoon will run Currahee again. Lieutenant Nixon will report to me in sixty minutes, freshly shaven and for God’s sake looking like an officer of the US Army. I’ll hold you personally responsible. The rest of you, dismissed.”

Forty-two men groaned. So far no one, of record, had been ordered to run up Currahee twice in a day. Dick toweled the sweat off his face with the front of his shirt, considering the general status of the platoon. They were tired but not yet out of breath, and their muscles were still warm. They would make it to the top all right, but getting up on Saturday would be a pain. Those who had a pass and romantic plans might find themselves less of a pleasant company than they’d hoped to be.

Jogging his way up the hill Dick patted Nix’s shoulder, who turned to look at him with a dark face. “Come on, Nix,” he said. “I’ll set the pace, all right?”

Nix nodded. “If I didn’t know you, I’d say you look happy.”

“Good that you know me, then.”

Dick had smiled then, and Nix had smiled back for the briefest moment.

Now, sitting outside with legs that felt alternately like concrete and jelly, he didn’t really expect any more excitement for the day when someone placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“There you are,” Wally Moore said in a cheerful voice. “Come on, we’ve been waiting for you. Nixon’s champagne is practically uncorking itself.”

“Pass,” Dick answered with a half-smile. “Tell him I say thanks but no thanks.”

“You can tell him,” Moore said, regarding him with a strange look. “Come on. He’ll hate it if you’re not there.”

“Why? He knows I don’t drink.”

“Yeah, but—Wait, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Baby Nixon. Born this morning. Nix got the call an hour ago.”

Moore wasn’t exaggerating about the champagne uncorking itself. At the officers’ club Nixon was sitting at the table, bottle on his lap with his thumb firmly on the cork. Three more bottles stood unopened on the table. There were a dozen officers in the room and they all cheered noisily at their arrival, waving their empty cups.

“My man!” Nix brawled loudly, standing up with the bottle in his hand. His eyes were shining and he was clearly more than half-way to drunk. Dick suspected that the phone call had arrived soon after the first evening glass, and from there on Nix had just failed to see a reason to stop.

“He didn’t know,” Moore announced.

“You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know,” Dick confirmed with a smile. “Congratulations.” He took half a step forward to shake his hand, but Nix pulled him warmly into a lopsided embrace with his free arm and held him there for a long moment—so long that Dick shot a puzzled glance at Clarence Hester.

“He’s been like that since he got the call,” Hester explained with a shrug. “Matt saw him hug Sobel on the way back from the office.”

Dick’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead.

“Poor bastard hasn’t got a single soul in the world who cares if he lives or dies,” Nix declared, setting himself back to the task of opening the champagne. “I figured—Damn you, Hester, making me talk of that piece of shit on the day my son was born!” The cork flew through the room with a loud bang and a perfect arch. “Cheers!”

Champagne poured frothing into the first thirsty cups. Uncomfortable with his hands empty, a recurring feeling when he hanged out with drinkers, Dick reached to grab the second bottle and uncorked it swiftly and with as little fanfare at possible, a soft thud marking the operation accomplished.

“Leave it, Clarence,” Nix said to Hester, who was offering Dick a cup. “Lieutenant Winters is drinking from the bottle tonight.”

“Am I?” Dick smiled. Nix looked delirious. There was a softness to his eyes, the way the corners crinkled when he smiled, that Dick hadn’t seen since… He wondered. Maybe ever. Nix always liked a stiff drink, and Dick had seen him tipsy on multiple occasions, but he had never seen him drink with a purpose, to make a statement. _Look at me_ , his Adam’s apple said, moving up and down. _Look how happy I am._

“I’ll take a sip,” he conceded, taking the cup he had been offered. “To celebrate.”

It was a happy little party, with a generous amount of alcohol and numerous back slaps for the lucky father, and it took Dick a surprisingly long time to realize that his quiet evening was gone and a bright full moon had risen in the sky. Even so, he only realized when the last officer left and headed off to bed; it was shortly after midnight.

Nix stretched back against his chair, yawning loudly. The last drop of bubbly had made it out of his glass about ten minutes earlier, and he was looking the way Lewis Nixon generally did when he started to be drunk: softened, face flushed, a pensive expression that bordered on sleepy, but otherwise in control.

“I should get going,” Dick said, not moving.

“It’s early,” Nix said immediately.

“Don’t you have to catch an early train?”

Nix nodded. “Seven o’ clock. As I said, it’s still early.” He seemed to consider the thought for a moment, then he slapped his palm on the table. The little mound of cigarette butts in the ashtray trembled with the vibration. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

“What, now?”

“Yeah. Come on. I’ll meet you out by the gym. Gotta pick up something from my footlocker.”

Dick was tempted to decline. Already for an hour he had been battling a not unpleasant drowsiness, and within another thirty minutes he would be out for good. On the other hand, he didn’t have plans for the next day, and this was the most time with Nix he had managed to grab a hold of since they’d moved in to Toccoa. He headed out.

It really was a beautiful night. The blanket of humidity had lifted at last, leaving only a temperate chill, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. He sat on the wooden steps with a deep groan, gingerly bending his neck left and right, rewarded for his endeavors by a frightful array of little snaps.

“There,” Nix muttered. He settled down next to him, placing two fresh bottles on the lower step, between their legs. The tumblers in his hand clinked softly. “Our nightcap.”

“I’m done, Nix. That was quite enough.”

“O ye of little faith,” Nix sighed dramatically, turning one of the bottles around to show him the tag. It was apple cider.

“They don’t have it at the club,” Dick observed, surprised. “I asked.”

“Personal stash,” Nix sniffed. “Courtesy of the general store of Toccoa, Georgia. Mind you, if they ever find it’s mine…”

“I’ll tell your son that it was all a bunch of lies.”

“Spoken as a true friend,” Nix declared, passing him the glass. He poured into the other from the second bottle (Vat 69) and they clinked in silence.

Between the tiredness and the perfect simple beauty of the moment, Dick felt utterly content. For the first time since OCS it felt like the two of them didn’t have to be awkward around each other. It seemed to him that all they had been doing since they had been transferred to Camp Toccoa was tiptoeing at each other’s periphery, and for no good reason.

“What are you going to call him?”

“Kathy’s partial to Michael. So.”

“Not Lewis?”

“God, no. Three of us is enough, thank you very much. Besides,” he added, “this thing with putting a number after your name always struck me as funny. We make pen caps, for Christ’s sake. We’re hardly royalty.”

Dick chuckled.

“Who knows, though,” Nix continued, now rambling freely. “Perhaps when we win this war for them His Majesty will give us all a knighthood. One of the ridiculous ones, like—What was it?” He snapped his fingers, struggling. “Something to do with stockings. Order of the Stocking. No…”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, that’s the point, remember? Hose? Order of the Pantyhose? Now _that_ I’d like to see.”

“You’re shouting,” Dick said amusedly. “Keep it down.”

“You’re not helping. Tights? Nylons? Ah, fuck. I give up.”

“Your knowledge of the undergarment industry is astounding,” Dick said. “It’s the Order of the Garter.”

“Garter!” Nix exclaimed, and Dick elbowed him in the ribs. “You just won another drink, my friend,” he continued in a lower voice, refilling both glasses. “Though frankly, where you learned that I cannot fathom.”

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just—You know. You’re not exactly—” Nix raised his eyes, a grin already on his lips, but then he saw Dick’s face and stopped abruptly. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. We just assumed. Since you never talk about—Well. Girls.”

Dick felt all the blood drain from his face. It took him a moment to realize that Nix actually meant something else, something harmless: that when it came to the fairer sex everyone assumed Dick lacked experience, not interest.

“Just—” he said at length, self-consciously smoothening the frown that had formed between his brows. “Leave it, okay?”

“Sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”

Nix poured himself another drink, downed it with a small sigh. Dick started to feel concerned. Someone earlier had made a joke about Nix ringing the doorbell of his own house so wasted that he could barely stand up, and it had seemed funny enough at the time, this humorous little scene with Nix’s wife opening the door and finding him like that—but now all was quiet and Nix was still drinking.

“We should—”

“I’m thinking—”

They both stopped. Nix took a tortured pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered, but Dick shook his head. Nix lit one up for himself and inhaled eagerly.

“I haven’t got the faintest clue how to do this.” Nix rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “By the time the war’s over he’ll be what? Two, three? I’ll be lucky if he won’t be calling the gardener _Papa_. And that’s if I make it back.”

“Of course you will,” Dick replied, his words sounding—even though he really meant them—hollow and naïve. He lifted a hand, uncertain, and let it rest on Nix’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine, and then you’ll have a lifetime to catch up. I promise.”

Nix scoffed, dropped a quick glance at Dick’s hand and a little smirk surfaced on his lips. “You promise, uh?”

“I do.” It was a commitment so huge, so absurdly beyond his reach, that Dick felt his face grow warm and immediately hated himself for it. There was that feeling again, same as on the night before graduation, his guts twisting and churning as if in open rebellion with his mind. There were other similarities, too. There had been another celebration, and Nix had been drunk—though _how_ drunk, Dick couldn’t know for sure.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he took his hand back and let it fall uselessly in his lap.

Nix seemed to follow the gesture with some interest. He licked his lips. “You know,” he murmured. “I’ve actually missed this.”

Later Dick would think it strange that they hadn’t heard Sobel approach before he came up on them. He must have been returning from a night walk, bumping into them on his way to the officers’ quarters, but how could they not have heard his footsteps?

“Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Sobel said, halting in front of them. In the moonlight he looked a little like a big, flat-footed scarecrow.

“Good evening, sir,” Dick saluted. Next to him, Nix echoed him with a soft, tight-lipped “Sir” and saluted somewhat sloppily.

That’s when the precariousness of their situation struck him: Dick followed Sobel’s gaze as their CO quickly appraised the half-empty bottles and the half-full glasses, his perpetually disappointed frown smoothening out into something monstrously resembling glee.

“Two of my officers drinking liquor outside the designated areas,” Sobel articulated slowly. “Now that is a sorry sight.”

“Sir, we’re off-duty,” Dick remarked lamely.

“Are you familiar with the areas designated for the consumption of alcoholic beverages, Lieutenant Winters?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain yourself, then.”

He almost mentioned that there was no alcohol in his glass, but he realized that it wouldn’t change anything, and the idea of leaving Nix to face punishment alone repulsed him. “No excuses, sir.”

“Lieutenant Nixon? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Nix looked grim and for the first time, Dick thought, utterly exhausted, as if Sobel’s appearance had sucked him dry of whatever everlasting reserve of energy he generally seemed to possess.

“Look, sir, as I told you this afternoon—” He stopped and seemed to put two and two together. Dick suddenly remembered something Hester had said, about Nix meeting Sobel shortly after receiving the call. The rest of the story he read on Nix's face as if laid out on print: Nix had told Sobel about the baby but he had omitted to invite him to his little champagne party. “No excuses, sir,” Nix concluded dryly.

Sobel clasped his hands behind his back, as if to keep himself from rubbing them like a farcical villain, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Major Strayer is unhappy with the blueprints of camp and wants them done all over. You will have ample time to acquaint yourselves with the layout next week and return your assignment by seventeen hundred on Friday.”

He turned on his heels to leave, took a step, then stopped and turned again, as if remembering something. “Your passes are revoked until further notice.”

“Sir!” Nix leapt to his feet, but Dick quickly rose and grabbed his arm before he could take a step. Nix’s arm flexed under his fingers, fist clenched. He stared at Sobel and Sobel stared placidly back, just waiting for an excuse to turn the whole sorry business into a real mess.

Nix gritted his teeth, but no sound escaped his lips.

“Give my regards to Mrs. Nixon,” Sobel said in the end, walking away. He must have been so pleased with himself that he forgot to take offense over the fact that neither officer had saluted him.

Dick waited until Sobel was out of reach, his silhouette having turned a corner, and even then he waited a little longer before releasing Nix’s arm.

Nix’s hands shot up to his hair. “Fuck. Fuck. Kathy’s gonna hate this, isn’t she.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed flatly.

Nix let himself fall back onto the steps with a groan. He eyed the whiskey bottle, grabbed it and took an angry gulp straight from the mouth.

“Really, Lew?” Dick sighed.

“Can’t get worse than this, now can it?”

Dick shook his head, tiredness rapidly mixing with frustration. He didn’t care about the assignment or his own pass being revoked, and he felt mostly sorry for Nix, but he was angry at himself. When Nix had come with the bottles Dick had known that there was potential for this to happen, and he had willingly ignored it for the privilege of thirty minutes alone with Lewis Nixon. Nixon, with whom Dick couldn’t remember having one full conversation since they’d moved in.

“I’ll get to bed,” Dick announced, standing up. “Get rid of the stuff, will you.” He gestured at the bottles and glasses.

Nix took his wrist. “Dick, I’m—Fuck, man, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to Sobel tomorrow. I got you busted for a kid’s drink, for Christ’s sake.”

“Leave it, Nix. Not a good idea.”

Nix squeezed his wrist gently. “At this rate I’ll get you grounded until Christmas, won’t I?” He smiled tentatively, but Dick didn’t smile back. He hated the way Nix was talking: busted, grounded—as if they were schoolboys caught smoking behind the gym. They were grown-up men. This was serious.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nix,” he said, perhaps a little more brusquely than he had intended.

Nix let go of his hand as if burned. “Sure. Not going anywhere.”

Dick walked back to the officers’ quarters savoring his own anger, twisting it around in his mouth like a hard candy, so fast that it was quickly melting away. By the time he had reached his bed there was none left, and all he could think of was Nix’s searching gaze and glistening lips as he said, _You know, I’ve actually missed this._

  
  


**_1 July 1942, Fort Benning_ **

 

The new uniforms for the graduates had started coming in on Saturday, one solitary shipment which would have gone mostly unnoticed if not for the inventory officer spilling the beans after signing off the receipt.

Someone must have made a mistake, however, because after the first delivery nothing came for two days. By Monday, a rumor had spread that they would fulfill the orders alphabetically, dress uniforms first, one uniform per officer, until stocks ran out. Those who could not get their hands on a Class A would attend the graduation ceremony in their service uniforms, and those who got nothing at all would attend in their enlisted man OD’s. They said that the national press would attend the ceremony, and pictures would be taken for the papers. A bad mood started to mount.

By Tuesday the uniforms were literally the only topic of conversation at camp. At the height of hysteria, on Tuesday night, a petition was presented with the signatures of twenty-four men (surnames Miller to Wilson) demanding that the starting letter for the distribution be chosen by drawing lots.

So when the much-desired cargo finally made it to Fort Benning on Wednesday morning, it’s no surprise that for the rest of the day nothing was done that did not entail or include trying on the uniforms, parading around in the barracks, comparing decorations. As they had technically graduated already, each of them having passed the final test, they were told that they were allowed to wear the uniforms as of supper that day. Suddenly the atmosphere changed and everyone felt lighthearted and glamorous.

Dick was doing his necktie in his shaving mirror when he saw Nix enter the reflection. Nix stopped behind him and leaned his shoulder against the wooden beam, arms crossed. He was wearing his shiny new service uniform, cheeks freshly shaven, hair combed neatly to the side, crease in the trousers sharp as a knife. They exchanged a quick, proud smile in the mirror.

“What’s with these guys? I saw less blushing and giggling at my baby sister’s debut,” Nix declared, pointing with a thumb in the general direction of everybody else.

“I’ll take a wild guess and say they’re happy.”

“Happy, yeah, sure. But it’s not that big of a deal.”

“No, it was nothing special,” Dick conceded, undoing the failed knot and starting again. “Easy, even.”

“Fairly easy.”

“Hardly worth a celebration.”

“My point exactly.”

Dick threw him another look in the mirror. “And here you are, twice shaven in a day.”

“Nothing escapes your keen eye, Lieutenant Winters,” Nix grinned, rubbing his chin. “The boys and I are going to Columbus for a few drinks.”

Dick didn’t have anything to say to this. An implicit invitation and an expected refusal were implied in the way Nix had casually laid out his evening plans.

“You never mentioned a sister,” Dick observed at length.

“Why? You interested?”

Dick looked away, his mind conjuring the funny picture of himself taking Nix’s little sister out on a date, her brother chaperoning her to keep things proper. Something about the scene made the tip of his ears hot. Would she look like a younger, smaller version of Nix, or like the many petite blondes Dick imagined flew in flocks through New York’s high society?

“Does she look like you?” he ventured, incapable of stopping himself.

“Lucky for her, she doesn’t. She’s a very pretty young lady, if I may say so myself.” Nix took a few steps closer to Dick’s right side, disappearing from the mirror. Instinctively, Dick’s eyes followed him.

“I would introduce you, you know,” Nix continued, clearly in a chatty mood, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I cannot possibly meet the family standards,” Dick agreed, feeling a little bolder than usual, a little more outspoken.

“Oh, not that. I mean, you don’t, not by a long shot. But that says more about them than it does about you.”

The corner of Dick’s mouth flicked upwards. Whether it was Nix distracting him or the different, smoother fabric than the one he had grown used to, the tie was proving difficult. He tried to straighten the knot a couple of times, unsuccessfully, then pulled it apart again.

“For God’s sake, give it here,” Nix groaned, reaching out. He draped the tie around Dick’s neck and started working the knot swiftly, fingers warm and sure under Dick’s chin. “No, the problem is,” he continued breezily, hands not stopping when he raised his eyes to meet Dick’s, “the little minx would chew you up and spit you right out.”

Dick felt his cheeks grow warmer, but resolved to hold Nix’s gaze, which for some reason made Nix smile. “Quite the character witness, aren’t you.”

Nix grabbed the narrow end of the tie, tightening it with a gentle pull. “I can’t represent her too well, now can I. Otherwise you’d be smitten in no time, and where would that leave me?”

Dick had no idea where his falling for Nix’s sister would leave Nix, nor why Nix thought that Dick should care, but he was smiling like they were both in on the joke and Dick smiled back. Admittedly, he liked Nix so much when he was in a good mood that he would indulge him anyway.

Nix’s hands lingered absentmindedly in the vicinity of Dick’s tie, eyes still on his face, as if searching for something. There was the ghost of a dimple on either side of his mouth, two narrow trenches running down to his chin.

Dick swallowed. “What?”

“Just a funny thought.” Nix patted the front of Dick’s shirt and took a step back. “Let’s go.”

A hundred and seventy-one people were having their last dinner as enlisted men in the mess hall. When the course had started in April there had been seventy more, dismissed along the way with various degrees of shame.

It had been harsh at first, the vanishing. The vision implemented at Fort Benning was one of rigor and excellence, and perhaps excellence was not so easy to inspire but rigor was the Army’s bread and butter. So off they went: twenty just the first week. Five had belonged to a tight-knit group that Dick knew from Camp Croft. Seeing them go was a shock. At Camp Croft they had been élite: boisterous, tough, athletic. At Fort Benning they had lasted four days.

Quickly enough everybody got used to seeing people go. They packed and left quietly, the rejects, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves. For a few more weeks the numbers had continued to drop steadily, leaving some barracks so depleted that the administration had started redistributing the survivors to the other blocks.

One night two weeks in Dick had gone to bed and found the bunk to his right empty, the footlocker gone, the nightstand cleared of books and photographs. He hadn’t particularly minded, since he didn’t like the guy very much. The next day, Lewis Nixon had taken his place.

Now thinking back to his first slow and crowded meal in that same room, Dick thought that the hall seemed half-empty and very quiet.

Food collected with only a minor wait, they sat at their usual seats, last row from the food line, a few tables away from the entrance. Food at Fort Benning wasn’t bad in general, but tonight it seemed better than usual, more sapid and flavorful. Everything around them looked and smelled and tasted a little more intense.

Dick was about halfway through his beef and potatoes when he noticed that Nix, who had been chatting away until that moment, had barely touched his food. He had lit a cigarette and stopped eating for several minutes already.

“Not hungry?”

“Mm? Nah. I’ll have something later. They actually make a mean steak in that shithole Wilson took me to last week.”

He seemed distracted. When Dick had something on his mind, he became more taciturn; Nix talked more than usual, his conversation airy and random, his gaze travelling across the room without really focusing.

“You got plans for next week?” Dick asked after a moment of silence. He himself didn’t have any. After graduation, with no open slots in the paratroopers, his foreseeable future extended to going home for the weekend of the Fourth of July, and after that it was a blank slate.

Nix took a long drag out of his cigarette and exhaled slowly to the side. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I got orders this morning.”

Dick held his breath. “Where to?”

“California. Fort Ord.” Nix smirked joylessly, the corner of his mouth digging into his right cheek. “Relax, I’m not beating you to combat. Not yet.”

Dick was indeed a little relieved, but a part of him thought it childish to feel that way. “What is it then?”

“What it is, my friend, is a priceless opportunity,” Nix declared, “to disappoint both of my parents in one go.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it over. It took Dick a moment to skip over the Army formulas and get to the point.

“Military police,” he concluded. He looked up, still unsure where the conversation was headed.

Nix put out his cigarette in his mashed potatoes, which made Dick cringe, but the other man didn’t seem to notice. (Two and a half years later, starved and freezing in a Belgian foxhole, Dick would dream of that lukewarm dish, cigarette butt and all.)

“Have I ever told you of that time my father almost killed a man with a foot-long metal bolt?” Nix asked conversationally.

“No,” Dick answered, taken aback by the sudden left turn. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, well, he did. Long story short, he doesn’t like cops all that much.”

Dick didn’t always know how to handle the careless way Nix dropped personal information in the middle of a conversation. It wasn’t that he minded being the recipient of such confidences, more like he wasn’t sure what Nix expected him to do with them. Sometimes it crossed the boundaries of self-deprecating humor and turned into something else—something closer to a preemptive attempt to lower people’s expectations.

“He must know it’s not the same thing,” Dick ventured, even though he had no idea what Nix’s father knew nor if that was even the point.

Nix scoffed. “That’s what you would think. On the other hand, Mother will be overjoyed to know I’m posted three hours away and I have no intention of visiting.”

“I thought your family lived in New Jersey.”

“They do. My mother lives in Sacramento.”

Dick was vaguely aware that Nix was the son of an unhappy marriage, and maybe that was why Dick had assumed that he was an only child. He also had more than half a feeling that Nixon senior was a rather domineering guy, and a drunk. Of Mrs. Nixon he knew next to nothing, but there was always a sharp, bitter edge to Nix’s voice when the conversation veered her way.

Dick looked back at the letter, than folded it carefully and returned it. “You don’t need to like it, Nix. It’s a temporary post. You’ll hear from the paratroopers before you can make yourself too comfortable.”

“That’s the dream.” Nix patted his jacket for the cigarettes. He put a new one between his lips, then stole a glance upwards. “You know why they need people over there, don’t you?” he muttered.

Dick shook his head.

“It took me some time to figure it out. Then I remembered something Blanche wrote last month. How she went to visit Mother and the nice Japanese flower seller downstairs was gone.”

Dick didn’t quite know what to say to this. He wasn’t a political man and for sure he didn’t like everything he read in the papers, but deep down he had to believe that something good would come out of all of this, if they just put in the hard work and trusted in the system.

What he considered saying to Nix was what his mother had told him the day after Pearl Harbor: _You have your orders. You go and you do your best. That’s all anyone can ask._ But he had a feeling that the words would prompt a snarky rebuttal and probably end the conversation on a sour note. So he didn’t say anything, which triggered a little sigh from Nix.

Dick pushed his empty plate away and cleaned his mouth. He folded the napkin in four parts, and then once more. “I’ve heard a rumor,” he said.

“Which one?”

“That all unassigned infantry officers will be ordered to combat effective Monday.”

Nix nodded, cigarette hanging loose from his lips. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’ve heard it too.”

“I’m ready,” Dick said, twisting the napkin in his hands. “But…”

He meant to continue, but suddenly his worries seemed beneath him. He worried about being given a platoon of strangers to command: would they respect him? Would they follow his lead? In a pinch, would they trust his judgement? But he was an officer now, and that was all he had trained for. Wasn’t it?

“You’re ready,” Nix replied, firmly. “Jesus, Dick, if _you_ are not ready the rest of us are as good as cannon fodder.”

Dick frowned, already shaking his head. “This isn’t—”

“But it doesn’t matter one bit,” Nix continued, leaning forward over his plate and dropping his voice, “’cause I don’t know about this bunch of fuckers, but you and I are gonna be paratroopers, and _we_ are gonna be behind those cannons.”

Nix’s grin was smug and bright-eyed and hands down one of the most charming things Dick had ever seen. He grinned back, his worries intact but now wrapped up tight in Nix’s contagious optimism. They were going to be paratroopers. No doubt about that.

After dinner Nix left with two buddies to catch the evening bus to Columbus, and Dick went back to his bunk. It had been a quiet day, most men having been given the afternoon off since the school was officially over as of Tuesday. Used to a more intense pace, Dick enjoyed the break but at night he found himself restless and fully awake, tossing and turning until past midnight.

If he was being totally honest with himself—an exercise he reserved for the small hours—the restlessness was partially due to OCS drawing to a close and his application being postponed indefinitely, and not a small part due to Nix moving to California. Since they had submitted their twin requests to join the paratroopers he had taken it for granted that their roads would proceed in parallel, and he had never since questioned the assumption. Now there was no telling if they would even end up fighting the same war.

He had just turned around once more when the door creaked and shuffling feet started making their way through the room. The gait was slow and uncertain and led the man to Nix’s bunk, where he sat heavily. In the moonlight, Dick saw him rub his face with both hands.

Nix bent to take off his shoes, which took longer than it should have, and finally kicked them away with a satisfied groan. He didn’t proceed to the next logical step, which would have been to undress. He just sat there in his socks, elbows on his knees, looking forward.

It took Dick some time to realize that Nix was looking at him. Up until that point he had told himself that he was merely checking on Nix to make sure he was all right, but suddenly he felt embarrassed, like he had been caught spying. He considered pretending he had been asleep all along and just roll over, but Nix got on his feet and walked the distance, hovering over Dick’s bunk.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” Dick murmured back. “You all right?”

Nix nodded, then motioned at Dick’s body. “Scoot over, will you.”

Dick knew that there were more than a few good reasons to say no, but then and there he couldn’t find a single one. He crawled aside, and when he reached the edge of the mattress—because two grown-up men could not possibly fit on their backs in his minuscule bed—he turned onto his side to make room.

The other man laid himself down with a sigh, bed creaking in protest. He smelled like pomade and whiskey and tobacco and a faint layer of the air pollution which was trapped in his clothes. So familiar was that mix combined with Nix’s unique scent, that Dick could have identified him in the dark from ten other men.

Nix turned his head to look at him, his mouth drawn in a thin line. He looked overly serious for the circumstances, Dick thought. “I’ve been drinking,” he started.

“You don’t say.”

“I mean—thinking. I’ve been thinking.” Nix pushed a stray lock off his face, his palm lingering on his forehead as if forgotten there. “I may write. From California. Once I’m settled and all.”

“Sure. They’ll redirect it to my post.”

“Yeah. It’s a very efficient system. The best. They’ll have to censor it first, of course. Strike the parts about locking up kids in camps and so on.”

“Lew, don’t write about that,” Dick said quickly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not an idiot. I’ll just write about—I don’t know. The weather, I guess. What do people write about?”

Dick didn’t have the faintest clue why Nix felt like talking about this now, but he could tell that something was on his mind, had been all day, and this Nix—softened by drink—meant he had a shot at figuring it out.

“You can write about anything,” he said softly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It really doesn’t, does it. I thought so.”

Nix was silent for a while, eyes cast towards the ceiling. “You could come with,” he said at last.

“To Fort Ord?” Dick asked, confused.

“No, Dick, not to Fort Ord. I mean home. For the weekend.” He paused. “Kathy wouldn’t mind.”

Dick tried to imagine Nix’s seven-month pregnant wife not minding about sharing Nix’s attention with his army buddy on their last weekend together for God knew how long.

“I have to go home.”

“Of course. I mean—of course you do. Forget that I asked.”

“I appreciate it,” Dick added quickly. “Just—”

“I know, I know. I said forget it,” Nix replied irritably.

Dick paused, not quite sure why Nix’s mood had turned sour. A thought formed in his mind, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He tapped Nix’s shoulder.

“God knows why you’re in such a hurry to introduce me to your sister, Nix.”

The other man weighed him in with a raised eyebrow, then broke into a chuckle. “Damn if I know. You’re a terrible prospect.”

“Not a penny to my name,” Dick confirmed.

“And what’s that story about buying a farm? Hell, Mother would get a stroke.”

“Farming’s a decent job for decent people.”

“That’s what I mean. No good for a Nixon.”

Dick smiled. “You’re a pretty decent fella, you know. When you’re sober.”

“Sober? Decent? Thank your lucky stars that I’m so fond of you, Winters. We have a history of bashing people’s brains out for much less.”

Dick couldn’t stop a flush of pleasure from rushing up to his face. He was grateful that the dark protected him from further embarrassment. Nix would have found it very amusing.

But Nix didn’t notice. He brushed his hair off his face and stretched his arms and legs with a big, open-mouthed yawn. “I’ll go,” he muttered eventually. “Let you sleep and all.”

“You can stay,” Dick said.

“Mm. What?”

“For a while,” Dick added. And then, incongruously: “If you stop talking.”

Nix seemed happy with the offer, because his eyes fell shut immediately. His hand slipped onto the pillow next to his face, and in a few minutes his breathing slowed down to a gentle, steady rhythm. Pinned between Nix’s weight on top of the coverlet and the tight fold of the sheets around his body, Dick wriggled his right arm free and folded it under his head to make himself marginally more comfortable.

He had had time, in the past four months, to consider the pros and cons of a number of situations involving Lewis Nixon. So much so that he now had a perfect mental map of what constituted good and bad ideas in regards to his dealings with his friend, and this, sharing a bed even just for a little while, was not in the good pile. But they had only twelve hours left together, and he had dreaded the separation for weeks, and already he felt heartbroken and lonely.

He rested his left hand on his pillow, which was warm to the point of unpleasant, and let himself study Nix’s face. It was nothing that he hadn’t done before, in sideways glances or discreetly during conversations, but he had never had the luxury of just looking at him undisturbed for any prolonged length of time.

Nix had an unguarded expression that was new to Dick—no witty smile, no sarcastic frown, no alcohol-fueled charm. His jaw looked already coarse with a ghost of stubble, hair floppy on his brow where he had disturbed it from its pomaded perfection, long lashes fluttering imperceptibly with the motion of his dreams. He looked almost troubled, and so much younger.

The silence around Dick had acquired a faint ringing quality, like a gentle tinnitus. He wanted to touch him badly, to the point where he could feel his fingertips tingle, but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t let himself—not even if he could be sure that Nix wouldn’t wake up.

He knew something about himself. Something that you could not grow up to twenty-four, make friends, play sports, have communal showers and not figure out. He had fought it at first, because he’d felt that he had to: he had prayed and dated girls and abstained from touching himself, the whole set. But contrary to sports, victory never brought any joy, any elation, not even the earnest satisfaction that came with doing things right—the right wrist movement, the right shoulder tackle. Eventually he had made peace with it and with God, feeling that if winning this one meant he had to bend the rules he applied to the rest of his life, then victory was worthless.

He sighed and looked up, realizing with a start that Nix’s eyes were open. Nix gave him a curious look, veiled and soft and concerned.

“Mm. Sorry. Fell asleep,” he mumbled in a groggy voice.

“It’s okay,” Dick whispered.

Nix turned on his left side, his knees above the coverlet bumping into Dick’s beneath it. Without a warning, his hand travelled up to Dick’s face and rested on the side of his neck, thumb deliberately brushing Dick’s cheekbone in what could be called nothing but a caress. Dick felt the side of his face burst into flames under Nix’s touch. He meant to react, perhaps move away, but Nix’s face inched closer on the pillow, so close that eventually their foreheads touched and there was no place left to run. Encased between Nix’s head and his hand, Dick felt trapped and naked, as if a beacon had been set alight to illuminate his best-guarded secrets.

What if they found them now, he thought, his heart thumping, his mouth dry as dust.

“I gotta piss,” Nix mumbled, and got up with a groan. Dick felt a cool breeze brush his cheek as Nix shuffled away towards the door, unoiled hinges creaking sharply to mark his exit.

When Nix came back, Dick was curled on his side, facing away. He heard Nix undress quickly and get into his own bed.

He didn’t sleep much that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**_18 September 1942, Camp Toccoa_ **

 

They turned in their assignment on time, after two full days of running around the camp with a measuring ribbon and five full evenings of putting measurements down to paper. They could have called it done earlier, but after leaving them to their own devices for the weekend, Sobel had started the new week with a fresh vein of sadism, refusing to let go of Easy until well past seventeen-hundred every day.

On Friday they finally patched it up, the job all but done and only in need of a final review.

Dick wasn’t sure how to judge the result; he could measure the length of four walls as well as the next guy, but when it came to putting it down to paper he was out of his depth. Nix on the other hand was begrudgingly satisfied with it, in the way one can be proud of accomplishing something they never chose to undertake in the first place.

He had a good eye for maps and plans and the like, and a surprisingly good hand at technical drawing. There was a story behind the skills, too, as was generally the case with Nix. The family company had undergone some big renovation in the mid-Thirties, and it had been his grandfather’s idea to have him tag along. They had practically rebuilt this little New Jersey town from scratch. He was sixteen at the time, and the two of them—Nixon I and Nixon II—had planned to familiarize him with the business and prepare him for the job of company president. It had seemed a good starting point to get him involved with the projects and plans of the new factories. Little did they know that young Lew would like the planning and building all right, and absolutely hate the rest.

Now Nix’s professional opinion was that the work was somewhat rough around the edges, but not what you would call “utter shit”.

“I’ll go,” Dick said at last, rolling up the big sheets of heavy paper they had been sweating on for the past days.

“I’ll come with.”

Dick looked up. “Are you afraid I’ll steal your thunder, Nix?” he grinned.

“Yeah, well, if your hundred-yard dash hasn’t impressed the son of a bitch, a little pencil dust isn’t gonna.”

“It wasn’t _that_ impressive,” Dick replied.

“No, Dick, you just broke the fucking sound barrier.”

Dick looked away to hide a smile. Nix, who wasn’t otherwise given to praising, liked remarking periodically on Dick’s athletic feats, with a breezy sarcasm that hid genuine admiration. To be honest, Dick was proud of his accomplishments, but praise made him uncomfortable. He worked hard, and yet he did it mostly because he liked it—the strain, the fatigue, the competition, the rush, the final push—so why praise him for doing what he liked? Sometimes, between the second and third mile up Currahee he saw something akin to desperation in the eyes of the men, yet they carried on, wheezing and cursing and pushing harder to beat their bodies into obedience, and he thought that they deserved to be praised much more than he did.

“I don’t think that it’s helping,” Dick mused while they walked to Sobel’s office. “You know, being good at it.”

“What, with him?” Nix snorted. “He hates your guts and you never give him an excuse. If you were half decent you would hide some dirty magazines in your bunk where he can find ’em.”

“He won this one,” Dick objected, gesturing at the blueprints.

“Uh-uh. This one is about me. You are collateral damage.”

Sobel was busy censoring outbound mail, a thick indelible marker in his right hand and two neat stacks of envelopes on either side. Dick eyed the open sheet on the desk; it was covered in dark blue blemishes like a beaten-up boxer.

They saluted and stood at attention. Sobel, marker pointed at the letter like a torchlight, slowly made his way to the end of the sentence, squinting a couple times at the poor handwriting. He looked up.

“At ease,” he said, and then: “Ah, yes. You can leave it on the shelf, Nixon.” He gestured at an already crowded bookcase. “Up there on top.”

Nix pushed the rolls to the top shelf next to two very old field manuals and a gas mask that looked like a Great War memento.

Sobel briefly appraised Dick’s appearance, didn’t seem to find anything of interest and went back to his letter. “That’ll be all,” he said flatly.

“Do you expect we will hear about it from Major Strayer, sir?” Dick asked in an equally flat voice.

Sobel looked up again, eyes moving with a slight hint of triumph from Dick to Nix and back. “The Major is a busy man, Lieutenant,” he declared. “He’s got no time to waste on trifles.”

Dick bit the inside of his cheek, jaw clenched. Nix’s eyes were boring a hole in his temple. Under Dick’s stone-faced scrutiny, Sobel’s eyes started a little nervous dance from Dick’s face to the desk to the bookshelf.

Finally Dick relented. “Good day, sir.”

They had been in and out in three minutes. Dick was fuming, which translated into a faster, stiffer walk than usual. Nix trotted to catch up with him.

“Such a stupid waste of time,” Dick muttered.

“Now don’t tell me you _just_ realized,” Nix said, incredulous. “Dick. Really?”

“I knew there was no point in us doing it. I didn’t think—”

“—that there was no point at all?”

“There are _useful_ things he could’ve ordered us to do, for the love of—” He sighed. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.” Nix put his hand on Dick’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No humiliation in an honest day’s work, right?”

Dick stopped to look back at him, considering his words for a moment. He realized that Nix thought him naïve, but that wasn’t it. He knew that Sobel could be petty and unreasonable; he had already met a few Sobels in his life. But there was a line you must not cross when it came to discipline. You could assign heavy, monotonous, unpleasant tasks that needed doing, and everybody would try not to be the assignee, but they would not question the assignment. Anything that didn’t serve a purpose just fueled resentment and encouraged disrespect.

“You are wrong, you know,” Dick said. “This was about me after all.”

Nix’s lips stretched into a grin. “Thank God, I had it all backwards. Now why don’t you call my wife and explain it to her, there’s a good boy,” he sighed.

Dick chuckled. He honestly found it quite impossible to stay mad when Nix was around. “I just meant I’m my own casualty, Nix.”

“Careful, Dick, pride is a sin.”

Nix stopped briefly at the hut they shared to pick up his coat and wallet. Dick walked with him to administration, where a bored-looking private sat behind a fat record book, barely started, watching people sign out before going on leave. It was still early and they didn’t have to wait long. Close to twenty-one-hundred on Sunday, when everyone came back to sign in again, the line would cross the door and coil around the side of the building like a very impatient, intoxicated snake.

Nix didn’t look particularly happy to be going home, even though Dick thought he must be. He was aware that it had been a rough few days for Nix, for more reasons than one. All week Dick had felt the storm gathering over his friend’s head, thick and dark and menacing.

“Have you heard from home?” he asked eventually. It pained him to ask, for some reason.

Nix cleared his throat. “Nah. Radio silence.”

“You’ll talk it out.”

“Yeah. I’m really looking forward to it.”

They had reached the gates. “I’ll see you on Monday then,” Nix said, putting out a hand.

The sun was going down, a chilly wind had started blowing, and for a moment Dick regretted leaving his jacket behind. “Give her my regards, okay?”

They shook hands in a slightly awkward, semi-formal way, as if Dick was officially congratulating him, the way acquaintances, and not friends, congratulated each other. It happened sometimes, the inexplicable awkwardness. Dick didn’t know precisely what caused it but he knew that Nix could feel it too.

“Of course,” Nix said. Dick wondered if Kathy had ever heard of him, and the thought made him uncomfortable.

It was obvious that Nix wanted to talk more; the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other suggested that he was nervous about something. Ultimately, though, Nix shook his head, put on his hat and simply waved goodbye, disappearing around the corner.

Dick headed back to the mess hall, slightly hunched against the cold wind. Inside it was warm and humid as crowded rooms tend to be, air reeking of human bodies and food and smoke. He collected a tray and made to join his NCOs, who sat in a tight group a few rows down, but before he could make it there his eye caught Walter Moore waving at him.

He was sitting with Matheson and Hester, dinner just about started, and something in the hushed tones and frowning faces suggested to Dick that the conversation had at some point veered towards Sobel.

“It’s fucking unreasonable, is what it is,” Matheson declared with an angry snort. “When are we supposed to study?”

“He heard they do it at Dog,” Hester replied, mouth full.

“Dog Company don’t run up that goddamn hill four times a week! Plus the goddamn obstacle courses, plus the endless PT, plus—”

“PT’s fine, really,” Wally said with a shrug.

“That what you call fine?”

“I’m not saying it’s _good_ ,” Wally replied. “I could do without the shouting and the name-calling. The exercise I don’t mind.” He looked up. “Right, Dick?”

Dick put his tray down next to Moore’s, across from Matheson, who looked like his day had taken a bad turn, and Hester, who looked fairly amused.

“Exercise’s fine,” Dick confirmed with a thin smile.

“Hey, Dick,” Hester said, peeking behind Dick’s back as if he didn’t expect him to come alone. “Where’s Nix?”

“On his way to the station. He took early leave.”

“Aw, you gotta be kidding me,” Matheson groaned.

Dick raised an eyebrow.

“He got his pass revoked again,” Wally explained with a smirk.

“It was glorious,” Hester added. “Nowhere close to Lew’s stunt last week, but still.”

“That’s right, not even close,” Matheson declared. “I thought the rich bastard would be stuck here until Christmas for that baboon bullshit. Just between us, Winters,” he continued, leaning over the table and dropping his voice, “who did he suck off to get off the hook?”

Dick’s eyebrows jumped up to his hairline. Wally covered his eyes with a hand and shook his head, suppressing a chuckle, while Hester guffawed loudly.

“Strayer? _Sink_?” Matheson pushed, straight-faced.

“Jesus Christ, will you stop? I’m seeing it now,” Wally groaned.

“I swear to God, if I gotta spend one more Sunday in here with you two ladies,” Matheson pointed his fork at Moore and Winters, “I will kill myself.”

“Now I’m really hurt,” Dick said, and of course he wasn’t, but he delivered the line with an equally straight face as Matheson had, and the leader of 1st Platoon wavered a little.

Matheson was a good guy, and Dick liked him. He was a great platoon leader, a brilliant tactician, and for all his talk against physical training Dick had never known him to give up one yard before the finish line or cheat on a single chin-up. On the other hand, he had a mouth as foul as the last grunt and he never let courtesy get in the way of a good joke.

“Well,” Matheson mumbled. “No need to be.”

“He’s joking, you idiot,” Hester snorted, cuffing him on the back of the head. “Dick’s got a sense of humor.”

Wally nodded, flashing Dick a quick smile. “If he didn’t, we would’ve found Nix hanged at the mast by now.”

“Death,” Matheson sighed longingly. “Boy, one month under that hysterical fruit really puts things into perspective, doesn’t it.”

“He’s not,” Dick said automatically.

Wally put down his fork, wiping his mouth. “He’s not what?” he asked.

Dick raised his eyes from his meal, only to find three sets of eyes looking at him. “A queer,” he answered, stone-faced.

“I think he is,” Matheson replied. “All that squeaking? Hey, has anybody seen him do more than ten push-ups in a row?”

“So he’s got a squeaky voice and his pecs are jelly,” Wally argued. “Doesn’t make him a fruit.”

“Yeah, come on, Matt,” Hester agreed. “They wouldn’t make a fairy CO.”

“That’s if they know. And how do they know?”

“They test you when you join up. Ask you questions.”

Matheson snorted. “Yeah, questions like _Do you like pussy or cock?_ You don’t see a lot of them stand up and say, _Yessir, I like a stiff one up my ass first thing in the morning_ , now do you?”

Dick drew his eyes back to his plate. It was not the first conversation of this particular flavor he had overheard in his life, and by now he knew how to let the worst of it wash off him and to participate with little noncommittal remarks. He had a feeling that it wasn’t working so well this time, though. Every now and then he could see Moore throw him curious glances out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey, if you’re worried, next time he asks you to report to his office we’ll escort you. Keep your honor safe,” Moore laughed.

“I’d like to see him try,” Matheson muttered, voice suddenly grim and devoid of all humor. “I’ll send him back to Chicago in a box, court-martial or not.”

Hester sighed, landing a heavy hand on Matheson’s shoulder. “Come on, enough sulking for one night,” he said. “Let’s get over it, all right?”

“Easy for you to say,” Matheson replied despondently. “You don’t get as much shit from him as the rest of us do, Mr. XO.”

“You kidding? I get twice as much and then some,” Hester laughed. “Just ignore it. Lay low until the next position up at battalion opens up. You play your cards right, you might even get it.”

“There are open positions up at battalion?” Dick asked, out of curiosity rather than genuine interest.

“Not for a while, there won’t be,” Hester said. “Not after Nix snatched the one.”

Dick blinked, and an awkward silence followed Hester’s statement. He looked around at Matheson and Moore, who looked back with puzzled faces.

“He didn’t tell you?” Hester asked hesitantly.

“I guess not,” Dick admitted, mouth dry. He lifted his glass of water to his lips; it tasted somewhat bitter. “When was it decided?”

Now it was Hester’s turn to look uncomfortable. “I’m not sure,” he said, carefully putting down knife and fork to the side of his plate. “I didn’t hear it from him either.”

“I guess he forgot to mention,” Dick said with a dismissive little shrug. “I’ll congratulate him on Monday.”

But now he was thinking that that was what Nix had tried and failed to tell him in front of the gates. The thought of Easy Company without Nix hit him hard, as absurd at it sounded. If their roles had been reversed, Dick wouldn’t have dreamed of keeping something like that from him.

Hester was the first to excuse himself, claiming he needed all his strength for the barracks inspection Sobel had scheduled for the next day. No inspection round was nice with Sobel, but barracks was by far the worst. Dick didn’t look forward to it either.

Upon Matheson’s suggestion, the three of them moved to the officers’ club. Dick had briefly considered turning down the offer, on account of there was nothing really interesting for him at the club, but he didn’t feel like going back to his empty, Nix-less hut. The evening would stretch out for hours and hours, long and boring, and perhaps he wasn’t the most sociable man but he didn’t hate company either.

Sobel was there. Sitting in an easy chair a little away from the liquor cabinet—where officers tended to congregate—newspaper spread in his hands, in the relaxed atmosphere of the club he looked inoffensive enough. It was an act, though, and one that they all had learned not to fall for very early on.

“Drinks are on me,” Matheson declared as soon as they set foot in the room. “Dick, you’re not fooling me this time. I saw you last week.”

“I’ll drink to your firstborn, Matt, I promise. Tonight I’m happy with water. On the rocks.”

“Water on the rocks,” Matheson repeated, snorting. “No kidding, Walt, he does have a sense of humor.”

“He does,” Wally confirmed with a grin.

“Suit yourself. It’s you dealing sober with me after nineteen-hundred, after all.”

As most officers on leave left the camp on Saturday morning and some on Saturday afternoon, depending on the routine dictated by their COs, Friday night was a busy time at the club. They took their drinks and stood for a while by the bar, chatting, until they could grab ahold of a free table. It was luckily out of earshot from Sobel’s chair.

“Clarence was telling us earlier,” Wally said in a low voice. “He got it in his mind to start—I think he called them _academic assignments_. For the officers. Daily assignments from the manuals, and he will interrogate us in the evening.”

“Probably while doing one arm push-ups,” Matheson punctuated, bitterly. “Or tied up to a chair. I wouldn’t put it past Herr Black Swan to be into that sort of thing.”

Nix had come up with the nickname their first week at camp. Originally it had been just ‘Black Swan’, which was both a theatrical reference and a perfect description of Sobel’s nasal voice. But soon enough someone had had the inspiration of putting ‘Herr’ before it, and it had stuck.

“Look at him,” Matheson mumbled. Both Dick and Wally had their backs turned to Sobel, but Matheson had chosen a seat from which he could oversee the whole room. “Looking fucking pleased. I bet he’s making up all the infractions he’ll find tomorrow.”

“It’s bad enough when he deals the punishments himself,” Moore said, swirling the liquid in his glass. “I can’t stand it when he makes us do it.”

Dick nodded. He knew the feeling very well.

“This man in my platoon,” Wally continued, “Shifty Powers. You know him? He’s a crack shot, best I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, I know Shifty,” Dick said. “He’s good.”

“And a model soldier too. Last barracks inspection, Black Swan had got it into his head that he had to punish him for something. Problem is, he couldn’t find a single thing. He looked everywhere—nothing.

“So in the end he turns to me and says Shifty’s pass is revoked. That was some bullshit right there, so I say: ‘Yes, sir, what’s the infraction?’, And he says: ‘You will think of something’.” Wally shook his head, downing his glass with an angry flick of his wrist.

They all had stories like that. They shared them in hushed tones during breaks or when off-duty, compiling a communal list of grievances against their CO. In his presence they tried to be formal and polite, but sometimes it wasn’t enough. If Sobel felt that one of his officers had failed him, the whole platoon would suffer the consequences. It wasn’t a coincidence that 2nd had had it particularly rough that week, and all the while, at each additional minute of exercise, at each additional hour of lessons, Sobel had looked back at Dick and Nix as if to say, _See, this is all because of you_.

Dick didn’t hate him, because he made a point of not hating anyone, but there were days when he got pretty damn close.

They left the club about an hour later. The cold wind had made the temperature drop, replacing a warm Georgian night with the same wintery chill Dick thought was awaiting Nix in New Jersey.

Matheson’s hut was the closest to the club; Dick’s was the farthest. They bid Matheson goodnight and kept walking for another twenty yards until Wally stopped and said, “That’s me.”

“Night, Wally.” Dick kept walking.

“Hey—So. Dick. I’ve been meaning to ask,” Wally said, a friendly smile surfacing to his lips under the orange light of the lamp post. “You always go for a run after the Sunday service, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dick answered, mildly surprised that the other would know. “Why?”

“We could go together sometime.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve seen your times. I think we’re a good match.”

Dick thought a number of things: that their best times were indeed very close; that he actually preferred running alone; that Wally Moore was a kind, handsome fellow whose company he didn’t mind.

“Sure,” he said. “This Sunday?”

“Yeah, sure.” Wally looked relieved. “Good night then.”

“See you.”

  


**_20 September 1942, Camp Toccoa_ **

 

The camp chapel was half empty as usual, which suited Dick just right. He didn’t mind forced proximity six days a week, but on a Sunday morning he needed to be left to his own devices. Other men liked staying in bed a little longer on Sundays, while Dick got up at exactly the same time (zero-five-hundred) to enjoy the peace and quiet and let his brain unwind. His mind used those first hours to restore clarity of thought, his soul to get rid of unnecessary burdens. He liked simple services in small churches, preferably with no one sitting on either side of him.

Moore wasn’t there, and he hadn’t expected him to be. In fact, he had never seen Wally Moore attend a single service of any confession, either at camp or down in Toccoa, nor had he ever heard him mention any religious inclination. Dick had never raised the topic himself. As a rule, he did not make himself privy to another man’s religious beliefs or lack thereof.

He met him outside the locker room, Dick getting in and Moore just coming out in his PT gear. He was six-foot tall, well-built, with soft brown hair and bronzed skin, and every inch an athlete. Unlike Dick, he had been a professional runner before joining the Army, which showed when he led his men up Currahee with what looked like effortless grace, chatting with them all the while, surveying the line up and down to make sure nobody relented, leading them in chants to distract them from fatigue.

They set out to run the perimeter of camp three times, which would land them at seven to eight miles, mostly on flat ground. On weekdays the airstrip was off-limits, which would bring the overall count down by two or three miles, but on Sunday no operations took place and nobody would care.

They started at a comfortable jog, which Wally pushed to a medium pace exactly fifteen minutes in. There had been no question who would lead their training session. Wally’s pace was regular, his step sure, shoulders straight and relaxed without a minimal hunch. While running he radiated a sense of complete self-fulfillment and contentedness.

They chatted while they ran. This was new to Dick, who outside PT was used to running alone, while Wally had trained for two years with a team where talking was just another part of the routine. This pace was meant to leave them with just enough breath to have a little conversation on the side, and in fact Dick felt perfectly comfortable doing so.

They talked about various things, mostly Army-related at first, like the previous day’s inspection and what was ahead for the following week. Then more personal stuff: their families, their childhoods. Wally had grown up in Arcadia, California. His family had been in the horse breeding business already for fifteen years before the racetrack boom, and when Santa Anita had opened in ’34 they had managed to make a name for themselves by placing in the races thoroughbreds of the highest reputation. Wally himself had been working with horses his whole life, so he was a deft horseman and had hoped to join a cavalry division, but there were no spots left when he had presented his application. Cavalry itself was dying: 2nd Division had been inactivated in July to make room for more armored troops.

“Do you miss it?” Dick asked, while they passed the starting point at the beginning of their second round.

“Horse riding? Hell yeah,” Wally chuckled. “Have you ever tried? No? To me it’s all about the speed. The muscle power. They’re magnificent beasts, horses. I’ll take a purebred stallion over a car any time.”

“I have this idea,” Dick said, “of finding myself a farm when I come back.”

“A horse farm?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Haven’t thought that far, really.” He chuckled, a little uneasily. Out in the open like this, his charming little dream seemed naïve. “I don’t know the first thing about farming. I just—I like the idea.”

“It’s a good idea,” Wally said. “If you’re still into it, you come look me up when the war’s over. I may have some tips for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

By the time they completed their third round the sun was shining bright and hot like molten steel above their heads. Wally had pushed their pace into a quick run for the last round, and into a sprint for the final half-mile, so in the end they were both panting heavily.

They had a little time left before lunch, so they went to sit out behind the showers, where the shadow of the building offered some shelter. In the shade they were hit by a refreshing breeze, which cooled down the sweat on their skin in a way that would soon be uncomfortable, but not quite yet.

“Here,” Wally said passing Dick his canteen, still unopened. “You forget yours?”

“Back in the locker,” Dick exhaled. “Thanks.” He took an eager couple of sips and gave it back.

They were sitting next to each other on the ground, in the very same position: cross-legged, hands in their lap, back against the wall. Dick rested his head backwards, looking up to the sky which was blue and unblemished like a painting.

“So,” Wally said. “How was it?”

“Mm?” Dick cast a glance at him, tipping his head to the side. “It was good. Let’s do it again.”

There was an intent, almost concerned look about Wally’s eyes. Dick couldn’t place the emotion precisely, but it looked familiar. He wondered where he’d seen it before.

“Yeah. Let’s.” Wally reached to take Dick’s hand, which was resting on his knee, and held it in his own, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Dick’s face.

Dick swallowed. Wally’s hand was hot, its grip gentle but firm. It was a grip that promised to relent immediately if Dick wanted to break free, and to get stronger if he gave his permission. For the first time in a long time, he realized that he had absolutely no clue what to do.

“Come on, Dick. Give a man a little hope,” Wally said softly.

He thought of Nix then, of an equally warm hand pinning him down on the pillow, and his fingers wriggled free of their own volition, leaving him to look at them like they didn’t quite belong to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, closing his hand into a fist.

Wally’s face was disappointed, but he didn’t seem angry. For some reason, Dick had expected him to be.

“It’s all right. I’ve been wrong before.” He patted Dick’s knee as if Dick were the one who needed sympathy, then stood up in one long push.

When Wally looked down, Dick saw doubt and fear creep slowly onto his face and he felt sick thinking it was because of him. “Can we keep it between us?” Wally asked flatly.

“Of course,” Dick said immediately. “I’d never—Of course.”

“Thanks.”

Before Dick could reply, he had disappeared around the corner. Dick stayed where he was for a long time, long enough for any residual heat to abandon his face and his shirt to become a cold, damp blanket on his chest. At this point he was shivering but he stayed a little longer, guiltily timing Wally’s shower in his mind, and only when he was absolutely sure that he wouldn’t cross the other’s path he left his hiding place and walked around to the locker room.

He didn’t meet him, in fact, nor did he see him at lunch.

He spent the rest of his Sunday thinking about it: the run, the hand, the soft prayer, the memory it had dislodged from the mental corner where Dick stored the things he didn’t want to think about. It was puzzling and it shouldn’t have been, really, because Dick knew what he was and what he needed and what he could and could not have, and so it should’ve been all very simple and straightforward, except it wasn’t. It was puzzling to the point of annoying, and by the time Nix reported back in the evening Dick was so puzzled and annoyed that he avoided him completely, ate his dinner with furious speed and no appetite and went to bed early without so much as saying goodnight.

He was so exhausted by his own brooding that he fell asleep almost immediately, not even waking up when Nix went to bed, and he only came to when the wake-up call was sounded at zero-five-hundred on the next day.

 

**_21 September 1942, Camp Toccoa_ **

 

Nix wasn’t training with them on Monday. Distracted by his own thoughts, Dick didn’t realize until Sobel ordered something and for the first time Dick was aware that his assistant platoon leader wasn’t there.

“Winters, have you gone deaf?” Sobel shouted angrily. “Why isn’t 2nd Platoon moving?”

“Yes, sir! 2nd Platoon, fall out!”

There was an even more vicious streak to Sobel’s attitude that day, and Dick had a fairly good idea of who might be the cause. At some point between breakfast and gathering for PT he had caught a glimpse of a black-haired officer quickly crossing the mess hall one step behind Major Strayer.

He hadn’t expected the transfer to be effective already, and the thought set a flame in his stomach like it hadn’t on Friday, the implications now hitting him fully: Nix had moved to greener pastures at battalion headquarters, and Dick and the men were left to shoulder the full force of Sobel’s ricocheting anger.

He knew it was only right for Nix to pursue his career the way he saw fit, but the net result looked like this: forty-three men doing push-ups with their face in the mud, and number forty-four unaccounted for.

More than that, it incensed him to think that Nix had moved to battalion HQ without addressing the men. 2nd Platoon was loyal to their leaders in a way that transcended hierarchy and almost resembled a personal allegiance. To return their loyalty, Dick always made a point of spending as much time with the men as he could, talking to them and listening to their grievances. That was, for example, how he had known when the rumor of his and Nix’s alcohol infraction had reached the Platoon. By Wednesday, after three days of the special Sobel treatment, he had expected some hard feelings, and not finding any he had concluded that the men were just hiding their resentment. So on Thursday he had asked Ranney to have a word on the way out of the mess.

Ranney was one of the best soldiers the company had, and a frank and good-natured man. Dick had asked him if he had heard.

“Yes, sir,” Ranney had said.

“And the men have too.”

“Yes, sir,” Ranney had added with a slight hesitation: “But I couldn’t say who spread the—”

Dick had raised a hand to stop him. “Nevermind that. I just meant to say that I take full responsibility for the consequences.”

Ranney had looked then like he was going to smile, but had caught himself in time. “That’s nice of you to say, sir, but nobody blames you. Or Lieutenant Nixon. We know Lieutenant Sobel can be—demanding.”

“Well, I blame myself,” Dick had replied, surprised.

“Yes, sir,” Ranney had said, now allowing a tiny smile to reach his lips. “We know that too.”

Frankly, Dick thought, the very least Nix could do to repay that kind of loyalty was letting them know when they were being abandoned.

He was happy that it was Monday, because Monday was more often than not a Currahee day and Currahee had a way of taking a man’s distractions away along with his breath. So by the time he actually met Nix perhaps he wouldn’t be so worked up and they could have a real discussion about it.

Speaking of distractions, Wally Moore was there, leading 3rd Platoon. Dick had resolved to steer clear for a while, let the memory gather some dust so that when they interacted again it wouldn’t be the only thing they could think of. But Wally had different plans.

Dick was leading 2nd Platoon from the rear, keeping an eye on the slow ones, when Wally ran up to the front of his line and patted him on the shoulder. He smiled the same friendly smile as ever, face barely humid with perspiration.

“Morning.”

“Hey, Wally.”

“You look tired. You sleep okay?”

He had had a full night’s sleep, but he was still exhausted. Regardless, the question seemed a little untoward. From a lesser man Dick might’ve thought it designed to make him feel uncomfortable, but from Wally Moore he actually took it as an olive branch.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just fine. You?”

 _“Straighten up, Salty. We’re running, not crawling!—_ Yeah, same. Just—Yeah. Mondays, right?”

There was a clumsy charm to his awkwardness, even though Dick imagined his whole point to be that they didn’t need to be awkward around each other. Maybe in a certain roundabout way it had worked, because Dick didn’t feel as uncomfortable anymore.

“Yeah, right,” he agreed with a thin smile.

Wally nodded and let the column pass him to check on the middle section of his platoon, while Dick sprinted a little to do the same with his. It was maybe a minute later that he came back from a very long train of thought and caught himself still smiling—a smile he proceeded to erase from his mouth with a mental head shake.

It started raining halfway through the morning, a light but continuous drizzle that eventually meant they went to the lockers in drenched shoes and wet to their bones.

Removing his shorts and underpants, Dick caught a glimpse of brown hair out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t him, but for the first time since his teen years he felt aware of his own nudity in a room where every last man was naked. He resolved to ignore the feeling like he would a minor sore, and forced himself not to shower any faster than he normally would.

Hester’s rumor was accurate. Before lunch Sobel summoned all Easy officers to his room—with Nix absent it was down to six—and explained that he had taken it upon himself to ensure E Company had not only the fittest men in the regiment, but also the most well educated. And since the men couldn’t be expected to excel if their officers didn’t lead them by example, he had decided to personally start a daily training programme. It would be on top of the regular classes they held for the men, of course, and effective immediately.

Then he distributed copies of a field manual ( _Camouflage of individuals and infantry weapons_ ) and said they would review it at eighteen-hundred in his office.

“Sir, we are still building the shooting ranges for the machine gun exercises,” Matheson said. “With the rain and all, I doubt we’ll be done before seventeen-hundred. Best case.”

Matheson was personally running the week-long exercise involving over forty men across the Company, an activity long planned and well-known to everybody.

Sobel wasn’t one who often missed deadlines, but this time he looked like he had genuinely forgotten. He bounced back very quickly, however.

“Good to know that the ranges will be ready on time, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

The weather had worsened, light drizzle turning into a minor storm. On top of that, a strong wind had started blowing from the north, making the work of Matheson and his men so much more miserable. The good news was that Sobel had turned the field exercise scheduled for the afternoon into a two-hour lecture on parachute training; but the bad news was that they would be left with minimal time to read their assignment.

At sixteen-hundred, Dick retreated to the library with his booklet. There was a cosy spot by the window that he favored, because it was a little far from the other tables, well-lit throughout the day and it allowed him to look at the maneuvers on the field. That day there wasn’t much to look at, only a handful of poor sods installing the shooting ranges under a late summer storm.

He started reading, but found it hard to concentrate. It’s not like the matter was complex; in fact most of it was fairly basic, and on another day Dick would’ve breezed through the pages without a problem. But today his thoughts were going off weird tangents.

It started at page 5:

_Background is the controlling element in individual concealment. It governs every camouflage measure taken by the individual. You wear clothes which blend with the predominant color of the background, and tone down the color of your skin and your equipment for the same purpose. You practice blending with your background by hiding in shadow and by avoiding contrast between your silhouette and the background._

He read the paragraph six times. Every time he got to the end, he realized that he had spaced out for several minutes and he had lost track of what he was reading. He gave up and moved on to the next page, where a comforting set of practical instructions won his attention back: helmet camouflage, skin tonedown, weapon tonedown, et cetera.

But at page 18 he fell into a new trap:

_Blending with your background means simply to match as many of these things as you can and to avoid all those with which you are in contrast. Remember, too, that your background is fixed. It cannot move with you. Whenever you move quickly against your background, you no longer match it. It is an easy way of attracting attention to yourself._

Dick sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands until a swarm of fireflies started dancing behind his eyelids. He opened them, blinking, and at that point Nix entered his field of vision, dispersing the fireflies.

“Hey,” Nix said, softly enough, but the chair he had grabbed scraped the floor with a loud screech that won him a few angry stares.

Nix threw a booklet face down on the table and sat in front of it with a sigh. Dick thought that he looked like a bad mood had been brewing for some time.

“Hey,” Dick whispered back.

Nix opened the booklet, browsed past the table of contents and started reading silently.

Dick wasn’t sure whether he should ask about the weekend or the transfer. Honestly, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to have either conversation.

He looked back at his manual, but whatever little amount of concentration he had managed to scrape together was lost.

Nix was still reading the same half-page, cheek resting on his fist and twisting his face into an expression of utter boredom that Dick had seen before, at Fort Benning, in what seemed already like a lifetime ago.

“I was told I should congratulate you,” he finally said. Out loud it sounded more bitter than it had in his head, and Nix looked up with mild surprise.

“I bet it was Hester and that damn big mouth of his,” he mumbled irritably.

Dick nodded. Without another word, Nix went back to his read _._ He started rolling and crushing the top corner of the page under the pad of his finger.

“You ought to tell the boys,” Dick insisted. “Before they hear it from someone else.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Nix replied, not looking up.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He turned the manual over, showing him the front cover. It was a copy of _Camouflage of individuals and infantry weapons_. “Why would I be reading this shit?”

Dick blinked. “I thought—”

“That I had up and left. Yeah, I figured. That why you wouldn’t talk to me yesterday?”

Dick was happy that Nix wasn’t looking him in the eye, because he felt that if he had, he would’ve somehow read the whole truth on his face.

“No. That was—I had something on my mind.”

“Must’ve been a hell of a something. You looked like Sobel had taken a shit in your chow.”

Had it been that obvious? Had he really looked so upset that anyone could tell? Dick didn’t usually wear his heart on his sleeve, but maybe it was different with Nix. Maybe Nix knew him too well.

“So what happened?” he asked, determined not to let him change the subject. “I saw you with Strayer this morning.”

“Yeah,” Nix acknowledged softly. “Well. He _did_ ask me to move up to battalion. He got ideas to open a TOE.”

“But you’re not going.”

“Nope.”

The corner of the page now looked like a dry leaf, curled up and trampled upon.

“You didn’t turn it down, did you?” Dick asked, his heart accelerating for no discernible reason.

Nix chuckled humorlessly. “That would be crazy, right?”

Dick wished that Nix would look up now. The mere idea of turning down an offer like that was ludicrous. It could only damage his career—or worse, if Strayer was the least bit touchy.

“But why? You’d make a fine S-2.”

“I guess I just proved I don’t have enough sense for that.”

“You do. If you’d asked me I would’ve told you as much.”

“Well, I didn’t ask,” Nix replied irritably.

Dick chewed the inside of his cheek. Sometimes Nix would be difficult for no other reason than he wanted to be.

“Fine,” Dick said. “I just think it was a mistake.”

He turned a page, hoping to find some distraction in night-time camouflage techniques. It worked for a while, but his attention kept being drawn back to Nix, to his inaudible mumblings, to his fingers drumming on the table. Nix was an impatient reader at the best of times. He had no method, no system, and he hated sitting down at a table that didn’t sport a bottle or a poker deck for any long period of time. If he hadn’t had a bright mind and exceptional visual memory he would’ve never made it through OCS.

Nix sighed sharply, as if at the end of a long, unpleasant train of thought. Finally he looked up.

“You’re right. It was a mistake. I should’ve made room and left the platoon. They would be in better hands now, right?”

Dick didn’t understand what that dark thing was that he saw in Nix’s eyes. Jealousy? Resentment? Disappointment? _Hurt?_

“I never thought that,” he said honestly. “I—The men need you.”

“Then just say you’re happy I’m staying, for Christ’s sake,” Nix snapped.

That was it, then. Dick was taken aback for a second, but then a smile irresistibly pulled up a corner of his mouth. He chuckled, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest. Then he realized that Nix was still waiting with an expectant and tense expression on his face.

“I am,” Dick said. “I’m happy. But to think that you had a ticket out of Sobelville and threw it away—”

“Maybe I didn’t want the ticket in the first place. Maybe—” Nix shook his head with a sigh. He looked Dick straight in the eye. “Maybe I didn’t wanna leave you to deal with that bullshit alone.”

That was when Dick realized that he knew something about Lewis Nixon. Something that very possibly nobody else in the world knew; something that made his head spin and his heart race furiously.

“I wouldn’t have let you. Not for my sake.”

Nix smiled: an impish, affectionate little smile. “I didn’t ask, did I?”

The rest of the afternoon flew by like a movie Dick was simply watching from the stalls. He finished reading his manual, he answered Sobel’s questions, he let Sobel nitpick his answers—all of that as if it was happening to someone else.

It was weird, really. It was not so different from how he’d felt the previous evening, the same kind of detachment and inability to care too much about the world around him, but this time there was no confusion, no fear, no crushing doubt. Everything was bright and clear—terrifying, but also elating.

He soldiered through dinner and excused himself as soon as he could. In the hut he shared with Nix he stripped down to his underwear, slipped under the bedsheets with a book, and set himself to wait.

It took some time. It was completely dark outside when Nix appeared on the doorframe, carefully shutting the door behind him. He looked like he had had a few at the club, probably in quick succession. His cheeks were rosy and his lips bright red.

“You still up?” he asked. “It’s past your bedtime, mister.”

“I was reading.”

Nix walked over to Dick’s cot and sat on the edge, by Dick’s knees. From someone else Dick would have minded the intrusion, but Nix had grown to such a level of familiarity that he could always afford to be careless with Dick’s personal space.

Neither of them talked for a while. Dick felt the silence build like pressure inside a boiler until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“How was your weekend?”

“Mm? It was—Yeah, it was all right. She gave me hell all Saturday, had to play hurt. Yesterday was—fine.”

“The boy?”

Nix didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied with other thoughts. He was looking at his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

“Look, what I said before,” he started. “Why I stayed.”

“Yes,” Dick said.

“It’s true, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s—” He shook his head. “This ain’t good. You got me thinking about it. I didn’t want to be thinking about it.”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” Dick offered.

“No. Of course. I figured you wouldn’t want to.”

“That’s not—We can talk. Let’s talk.”

Nix shook his head again, softly, with such a quiet hopelessness to the gesture that Dick instinctively reached out to squeeze his shoulder. Nix contemplated the hand as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it, then sighed and rested his cheek on it. His face was warm and rough with stubble.

“Come here,” Dick murmured.

“Not a good idea,” Nix mumbled, unmoving.

“I’ll turn off the light.”

“Now _that_ ’s a good idea.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“What about you get out of my head,” Nix sighed unhappily.

Dick moved his fingers away from Nix’s shoulder and around the back of his neck in the gentlest touch, fingertips brushing the short hair at the base of his skull. Already touching him like this felt absurd, a hazard. Nix leaned slightly into his hand, like a plant toward the sun.

This time Dick didn’t ask for permission before he turned off the bedside lamp. He wasn’t disturbed by the light, which allowed him to read at least some of Nix’s thoughts on his face, but he had caught their reflection in the window onlooking the main road. Now in the dark, an irrational fear gripped his heart that Nix would just get up and leave.

He didn’t. “I’m drunk,” Nix murmured, but he wasn’t. It was a warning perhaps, or a preemptive excuse. Nix placed a hand on the mattress to support his weight as he leaned forward, springs creaking gently.

“Damn,” Nix breathed somewhere close to Dick’s lips, the profanity harsh and familiar.

Nix’s mouth fell on Dick’s as if naturally driven by his body’s momentum. It started close-mouthed, gently, more reconnaissance than a real kiss. Then Dick moved both hands to Nix’s face and Nix made a little humming sound in his throat, pressing on. Dick’s head found the wall and Nix’s lips parted to press a kiss on his upper lip. Struck by a thought, Dick touched Nix’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue. He tasted whiskey, sweet and sour, which he found he didn’t mind at all.

“Goddamnit,” Nix breathed, and then his tongue was in Dick’s mouth. Nix’s presence overpowered his brain. Something changed in Nix’s posture, and he relaxed and got heavier, slowly closing the empty space between their bodies until Dick felt him press on his lap.

He got hard the very second he found out Nix was already. His mind started racing, all sorts of crazy things coming back to him, things he’d imagined once and figured he’d never get to do: things like Nix fully dressed waist-up, naked waist-down, legs resting on Dick’s shoulders over the edge of the bed, cock in Dick’s mouth. Not today, but one day, maybe. With a bit of luck.

Nix’s hands rose to Dick’s shoulders, the simple touch enough to send a jolt of pleasure coursing through Dick’s body. He pulled back.

“Okay. Let’s—let’s wait a sec here,” he stammered, hands still holding Dick by the shoulders.

“What is it?”

“What is—? Jesus, Dick. This. You letting me—Jesus _Christ_ , Dick.”

Dick’s heart sank. Nix’s hands were still gripping his shoulders, unrelenting, neither allowing him to leave nor to get closer. He swallowed a dry mouthful of air.

“Look, I—I understand,” Nix continued. “All this time on your own. With no company. It’s not right. A man ought to blow off steam sometimes.”

“Nix—”

“We need to go out, you and I. Clearly. Next weekend, all right? I’ll take you to a nice place. We can meet someone.”

Dick shook his head, all the elation he had felt turning cold and heavy as a stone in his chest. “Lew.”

“I’m serious. This ain’t good. You’re alone for too long, you get—you get thoughts.”

“Like what, Nix? What kind of thoughts?” he snapped.

Nix’s hands dropped from his shoulders. It felt like having a band-aid torn off his skin. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a few too many. I—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He knew that the right thing to do was to let Nix have his way out, but he couldn’t force himself to pretend that he blamed it on the alcohol. Something about the charade made him feel sick.

“What about Benning?” he blurted out.

Nix didn’t answer immediately, and when he did he sounded like he was choking. “I don’t understand.”

“You do. You were there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dick set his jaw, a sour taste coming up to the back of his mouth. “Go to hell, Lewis.”

Nix got on his feet. The door slammed behind him with a loud bang, and for a moment the dark lamp hanging from the roof waved like in the middle of an earthquake.

The sheets were cold and sticky against Dick’s skin. He was sweating, though it wasn’t warm at all. It was OCS all over again, Dick thought, stomach cramping at the idea that they might be back at the start, the mountain still there to climb, but no, this was worse: Benning they had pretended it had never happened, and it hadn’t exactly worked but at least they had saved face. This… They would not recover from this.

Nix came back half an hour later, undressed in silence and got into bed. After a while, Dick heard him sigh heavily and turn on his cot. “Dick?”

“Yeah?”

“Look. I’m sorry if I—if at some point I made it look like—Damn.” His voice was exhausted, dripping concern and guilt. “Can we just forget it? Please.”

Dick hadn’t the faintest idea where to start to forget something like this. Nix might as well have asked that they pretended not to know each other. Maybe it would have been easier.

“Yes,” he said, eyes fixed on a wood knot in front of his nose. It was large as a coffee ring and dark brown like a burn, or a bruise. “Sure.”

It took him some time to fall asleep, and when he finally did, he was thinking of camouflage.

_Always remember that you are a member of a team. Camouflage discipline is the most important part of individual camouflage, because not only you but all your buddies in the unit will have to suffer for the mistake of one member._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in WWII U.S. Army field manuals, [here](https://www.ibiblio.org/hyperwar/USA/ref/FM/index.html) you can find as many as you want. The camouflage manual mentioned in the story is available for download.


	3. Chapter 3

**_30 September 1942, Camp Toccoa_ **

 

The Junior Olympics had been Sink’s idea, although Strayer had played no small part in it. Both of them were obsessed with calisthenics, so nobody was surprised by the announcement that the first distinction ever to be granted in Toccoa would be decided by a physical competition.

The big event was planned on a Wednesday, the last day of September: Sink wanted it to be distant enough from the weekend that no lingering distractions would dampen the officers’ concentration, and not so far into the week that they would be too tired to perform at their best. He was a man who liked a big show, a fair challenge, and a display of physical prowess.

There were favorites, of course. Each company had their own. Charlie had Joe Reed, who ten days earlier had broken the regimental record for a round-trip up and down Currahee. Dog had Ron Speirs, who wasn’t the greatest runner but excelled at practically everything else. Easy had Wally Moore, who ran fast and was a champion of the obstacle course, and Dick Winters.

Dick was aware that some enthusiastic betting was going on among the men, a poorly kept secret that he tolerated with a smile. It wasn’t every day that the men could sit down and enjoy the show while their superiors struggled in the mud, and Dick for one didn’t see the point in depriving them of the opportunity.

On Tuesday night he paid a visit to the barracks, repressing a smile when Toye and Guarnere hastily made the money disappear into their pockets. Malarkey was lying on his bunk feigning indifference, with Skip Muck at his feet studying his own fingernails with the most intent expression. Bull Randleman was standing there in the middle, as ever too big to be inconspicuous, looking like he wanted to make a run for it but thought it a tad bit too obvious.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Dick said.

They all greeted him back with a guilty degree of haste. Dick could see a little stack of betting tickets in Guarnere’s breast pocket.

“How’s it going?”

“It’s all right, sir,” Toye said, after throwing a quick glance at Malarkey on the other side. “Chattin’ the night away.”

“No cards?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

“Why not? You’re always playing.”

Randleman and Muck exchanged a look at the periphery of his vision. Bull shrugged helplessly.

“Would _you_ like to play, sir?” Guarnere asked, his voice implying that he thought hell would freeze over before he saw Dick Winters play for money.

“No, thank you, Bill,” Dick said, never one to disappoint. “I was actually wondering if I could see the book.”

“What book, sir?” Toye asked.

“The one for tomorrow, of course.”

There was a long silence, during which an intense but mute conversation took place between the men. Eventually Malarkey cleared his throat, nudged Muck with a sock-clad foot and said: “Make room for the Lieutenant, Skip.” He sat up himself.

Dick accepted the offer, and the other men edged closer expectantly.

“It’s just a bit of innocent fun, sir,” Toye started.

“Come on, hit me,” Dick said, clapping his hands. “What do I look like?”

Toye hesitated, but Guarnere next to him nodded curtly. The cat was out of the bag now; no point left in hiding.

“You’re pocket change, sir, on all four accounts. Odds are too good.”

“They pay even money over at Charlie,” Randleman supplied.

“That’s ’cause they got in way over their head with Reed and his forty-two fuckin’ minutes.”

“The pond, you wait till he reaches the goddamn pond,” Guarnere muttered. “We’ll see how fast he can get across on those scrawny little arms of his.”

Dick nodded with a little smile, trying to let just the tiniest amount of pride show. “And overall?”

“We have you top three. Lieutenant Moore looks good too. Frankly, we haven’t got much faith in his chin-up, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“You feeling fine, sir? Ready to give it your all?” Randleman asked.

“Yeah, I think I’m ready,” Dick answered.

“Good. That’s good.” Bull leaned over, resting an elbow on the top bunk above Dick’s head. “Because 2nd Platoon is cheering for you, sir. Like— _really_ cheering for you. Pocket change or not.”

“Bull, don’t hassle the Lieutenant,” Muck said, punching Randleman’s shoulder. “He’s got his shit together. All due respect, sir.”

“That’s all right. Don’t worry, Bull, I’ll do my very best.” He threw a quick glance around and decided that he’d better not overstay his welcome. He liked being with the men, but the men also needed to be left to their own devices. “All right, guys. Thanks for the intel. I will—”

“Say, sir.” Malarkey put his hand lightly on Dick’s shoulder. “Since you’re here. Wouldn’t you like to hear about the others?”

Dick started to shake his head, to protest that he shouldn’t be privy to gossip, but the men insisted, speaking all together at the same time. In the end Malarkey was the one who convinced him, by saying just about the right thing: “It’s just for the laughs, sir. It won’t give you any real advantage or nothing.”

He left the barracks at lights-out, face pink with laughter and a nice, warm feeling that he couldn’t have spent this particular evening any better way.

Nix was smoking outside their hut. Dick saw him already from afar, his slightly hunched silhouette standing out against the cone of light of the lamp post, familiar like the back of Dick’s hand. The tiny flame of Nix’s cigarette shone like a single polished button on his chest.

“Hey,” Dick announced himself, as Nix seemed lost in thought.

“Oh. Hey.” Nix tapped his breast pocket. “You want a smoke?”

Dick shook his head. He barely ever smoked; he generally gave his two daily packs to whomever seemed to be short, keeping just a handful for himself, for the occasions.

“That’s self-sabotage,” he declared, nodding at the cigarette.

“What, this?” Nix scoffed. “Nah. Nothing to sabotage here.”

“Why not? You got a fighting chance.”

Nix rested his back against the wall of the hut. “Not unless you go and put castor oil in everybody’s morning chow, including your own. No? Thought so.” He inhaled and exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke, looking upwards. “I’ll just do my thing while you big dogs sniff each other’s asses and settle who’s the alpha male around here.”

That struck a little too close to home, considering Wally was a top contender, and Nix shook his head as if to mentally chastise himself for the blunder, but said nothing.

Dick leaned against the wall next to him, perhaps not as close as he would have a few weeks before, but still within comfortable proximity. “Turns out there’s a betting ring going on in the barracks. They give you odds and all.”

“Mm. Sounds unsavory,” Nix smiled around his cigarette.

“I knew you’d approve.”

“Should I place a bet? Feels like I should. Get rid of some cash, redistribute wealth et cetera.”

“Hold your horses, Karl Marx,” Dick replied. “If you end up winning—”

Nix snorted. “I mean a shitty one. Someone like, I don’t know. Sobel.” He shook his head. “Poor bastard. I wonder what _his_ odds are.”

“Oh, they’re really bad,” Dick said with a smirk. “Really. He can never know.”

“Court-martial kind of bad?”

“Quite.”

Nix hesitated, but Dick had been reading the question all over his face even before he spelled it out. “What about me?”

“Let’s just say, I hope you pay your workers more generously than you do your betters.”

“Holy shit,” Nix chuckled, face flushing with pleasure. It was a good sight, Dick decided—but then again, he would know.

They were silent for a while after that, while Nix’s cigarette slowly died away. He seemed to consider lighting a new one, but eventually decided against it. Dick was a bit sorry. He didn’t mind the silence; in fact, standing next to each other in comfortable silence was the best kind of interaction they could hope for these days.

“I guess I’ll turn in,” Nix said, checking his watch.

“Yeah, me too.”

Nix didn’t move. He stood between Dick and the door; to enter Dick would have had to walk around him, which seemed a little too awkward, so he just waited.

“This is going well,” Nix said at length, a question as much as a statement. “You and me.”

It really wasn’t. They hung around each other and had friendly conversations that to the casual observer would have sounded just like their past ones. But it was an act: Dick Winters playing the role of Dick Winters, teetotaller and church-goer, and Lewis Nixon as his rich, handsome friend. They had them all fooled, and sometimes Dick let himself get caught in the narrative and went to bed warm in his chest, thinking they were back to normal. Then something would happen, like Nix’s mindless joke a moment ago, and he would be reminded that they were just delivering lines.

“Yes,” he agreed, looking at the sky. “Yes, it is.”

Nix reached out and gave Dick’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, heading in without a word.

Dick gave him enough time to settle into bed, then followed.

The games included four specialties: push-ups, chin-ups, the obstacle course, and Currahee. The scoring system was point-based, with the first two specialties awarding points for most hits in a minute, and the latter two for best time.

At the sign-up table (a name that made participation sound optional, which wasn’t the case), each officer was given a sheet with their name and serial number and three boxes to fill in with their partials; all the sheets would be collected at the end of the obstacle course to compile the scoreboard. With the partial results out, Currahee would be the highlight of the show and the ultimate tie-breaker.

They started at ten-hundred with push-ups and chin-ups. The pool of a hundred and twenty officers had been split into two alternating groups, and each specialty was set-up with ten posts marked by an assistant who kept tabs and filled in the result for the contestant.

Dick was sorted into group A, which meant he would start with the push-ups, a category he favored. In order to foster the competition, each company had been kept together, so that the contestants would be competing against their mates. At the push-up station he found himself between Hester, on his left, and Moore, on his right. Nix stood a few posts down, looking pretty much like he was sitting in his dentist’s waiting room.

Wally Moore said something to him, but Dick wasn’t listening. “Sorry, what?”

“I said, good luck.” Wally followed his line of sight, then made an indulgent little face that made Dick feel very uncomfortable.

“Now don’t you go encouraging him,” Matheson snapped on Wally’s right. “He doesn’t need the boost.”

“Position!” shouted the drill instructor, and ten officers went down on their hands and toes. Dick’s assistant for the specialty was Don Malarkey; crouching on the ground, his right fist rested right under Dick’s chest. Dick would have to touch it every time for the push-up to be counted.

He adjusted his posture marginally and nodded at him. Malarkey nodded back.

“Start!”

He started at a good, steady pace of a little over one per second, and for the first thirty or thirty-five beats everything progressed without a hitch, his muscles pumping with perfect rhythm, his body bouncing up and down like a spring. Malarkey was counting for him like they did in training. At forty his right shoulder gave a little pang of pain, and at forty-five Dick realized that he had been inching to the left to shift his weight away from it. He forced himself to readjust, exhaling sharply.

Just a few more now. Malarkey counted in a clear, steady voice: “Forty-nine. _Fifty_. You got it, sir. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.”

The time signal was given and Dick pulled back. Starting from the first in line, the assistants shouted the scores one after one.

“Hester, fifty-one!”

“Winters, sixty-one!”

“Moore, fifty-nine!”

“Hey, well done,” Wally said as they walked away to make room for the next line-up. “That your best?”

Dick realized that he hadn’t paid attention when Nix’s score was announced. “Sixty-three. Well done yourself. How do you feel about chin-ups?”

Wally shrugged. “I already have it down as my lowest. But it’s a good warm-up for the wall.”

“It sure is.” Dick took a sip of water from his canteen, then noticed that Wally didn’t have his own and offered it without thinking. Wally hesitated, as the same thought crossed both of their minds. Dick flushed a little and almost took the canteen back, but stopped himself.

“Come on. No need to be weird about it,” he said softly.

Wally smiled. “That’s true. Thank you.”

The setup for chin-ups was exactly the same, with one assistant standing next to each station. Dick’s assistant this time was Lipton.

“Morning, sir,” he saluted, collecting Dick’s sheet.

“Morning. Having fun?”

“It’s all right,” Lipton grinned. “Beats running up Currahee in full gear.”

“You enjoy the day off, Lip. I have a bad feeling about tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Lip’s grin got a little wider. “Is it bad? I haven’t heard how Lieutenant Sobel is doing from over here.”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll see soon enough.”

Chin-ups were not Dick’s favorite, but after the first round his shoulders had warmed up and the second exercise felt way smoother than he had feared. He started strong, with a good rhythm and even a hope that he might beat his personal best.

He was more competitive than people gave him credit for; he was proud and resolute and believed in being the best. The reason why people didn’t think of him as a competitive person was that most of the time he kept it hidden behind a better motive. He felt petulant, caring so much. This, however, was one occasion when he didn’t need to keep the extra drive in check.

He closed at thirty-one, matching his record but falling short of breaking it. Next to him, Moore closed at twenty-six, with a struggle.

They had only a ten-minute break before the obstacle course, so they slowly moved to the beginning of the track with the rest of the E Company group. Nix still had the dentist office waiting room look about him: a peculiar mix of boredom and contempt that, to Dick’s knowledge, summed up exactly how Nix felt about sports competitions. It was a little juvenile, he thought. It made him look younger, but not in a good way.

There was nothing about the course that they hadn’t seen and conquered multiple times in the previous six weeks, but the full length of it was always an imposing sight. The horseshoe-shaped track was to be completed in under three minutes, jumping, climbing, skipping, hanging and crawling through some ten individual obstacles, two of which had already sent more than one man packing. Referees would stand next to each obstacle to spot irregularities and whistle them out of the track with a solid zero in their third box.

“I could swear it looks taller today,” Hester muttered, glancing over at the bend which marked the halfway point. “They can’t have added a log or two overnight, can they?”

“That would be too easy,” Nix answered grimly. “No, they keep digging the goddamn ditch in front of it. We’ve already found water. A little more, we’ll get to China.”

“You two ladies just need to learn to jump,” Wally said. “A paratrooper who cannot jump, c’mon.”

“Didn’t they tell you, Wally? Paratroopers jump down, not up.”

“Maybe they do when they forget to get off the horse,” Nix contributed. “You know, the fucking high one?”

“Aw, shut up, Nix,” Wally replied with a grin.

On top of boredom and contempt there was a third emotion, Dick thought: animosity. Right now it seemed directed at Wally, but Nix was probably just venting on the closest target. Dick wondered what was the matter exactly, then told himself that he had to stop caring for now so he could stay focused.

They got their call. The obstacle course was long but narrow and the contestants had to start in groups of five, with half a minute between one group and the next.

Dick passed the skipping station with ease, balanced his way to the other end of the suspended log, crawled through the wooden tunnel and climbed up the steep hill placed right outside of it. He ran down the slope only to see Wally sprint past him, two seconds ahead. He dug his heel into the ground and pushed hard to catch him. Next was the ten-foot log wall which the 506th hated with a passion: Wally had already jumped and was throwing his leg over the top when Dick got onto it. They landed almost at the same time with two twin thuds, Wally still first, turning his head and flashing Dick a quick smile that seemed to say: _“There_ you are.”

They ran next to each other for a few seconds, climbed the inclined plank with the help of a rope, tried and failed to long-jump the water-filled ditch all the way and came out of it with soaked boots squelching at every step.

The last obstacle was the thirty-foot-long horizontal ladder, suspended over an equally long body of water. The ‘pond’ was large but shallow, and falling into it was almost as unpleasant as crossing it. Arms still stiff from the previous stations, Dick jumped to the first pin and let himself hang for a split second before swinging his way forward. Wally was still ahead for the first three or four steps, but before reaching the midpoint Dick caught up and passed him, distance increasing progressively until his arms and shoulders throbbed with pain and his body started swinging against the rhythm, making the advance more difficult. He got off the ladder with an explosive sigh and sprinted the hundred-yard dash high on adrenaline, all pain gone and forgotten, finally slamming his hand into the raised one of the closest assistant.

“Winters, two twenty-six!” the man shouted.

Three seconds later came the next: “Moore, two twenty-nine!”

Dick moved aside from the finish line and let himself drop on his back on the ground, panting hard, head spinning. He covered his eyes with the back of his hand for a moment.

A tall shadow dropped next to him. Dick threw him a glance and saw Wally’s shoulders shake, which almost worried him until he realized that Wally was laughing. Adrenaline, he thought. Oh, they sure were having fun.

“You’re good, Winters, damn it,” Wally breathed.

“Yeah, no need to sound so surprised,” Dick chuckled.

“I’m not. I’m not. I knew it.” Wally turned his head, cheeks hot and a big smile on his face. “I’ve been watching.”

A muddy boot poked Wally in the ribs. “How’s the tan coming along, darlings?” Nix panted, catching his breath.

“Hey, fuck you too,” Wally grinned.

Dick sat up, wiping his sweat with the back of his arm. Wally couldn’t see it or perhaps he didn’t care, but Nix looked like another storm was gathering. Dick wasn’t always able to follow the tides of Nix’s moods, even less so these days, and yet this one seemed obvious.

He tried to catch his eyes and ask a mute question, but Nix wasn’t looking.

“I need to get out of these sponges,” Wally declared, pushing himself up. “I’ll see you at the scoreboard.”

He was talking to Dick, even though by now there were three more Easy men standing around. It was funny how at some point it had become _their_ competition, this thing that the two of them were doing together. It made it feel recreational. It actually made it more fun.

“I’ll come,” he said. He threw a small glance at Nix, but found him busy talking to Hester.

“You keeping tabs on your score?” Wally asked in the locker room. The room was slowly filling up with men in wet boots, the floor already littered with muddy footprints.

Dick nodded. “I’ve got a few points over you. But there’s Currahee still.”

“You know, now I’m thinking that I don’t really care who gets it the end. So long as—”

Dick thought he was going to say, _So long as it’s Easy Company._

“So long as I beat you, I’m happy.”

Dick smiled. “Imagine how good that’ll look on your service record.”

“Not bad, uh? Ah, damn.” He shut the locker. “I left my second pair back at the hut. I’ll go get them.”

Dick was already changing into a fresh pair of socks. “If you wait a second, I’ll walk with you.”

“You sure? Scores might be coming out.”

“No, it’s too early. Besides, I’d rather walk than stand right now.”

They made their way to the sleeping quarters, which at that time of day were empty and quiet like a ghost town. Wally’s shirt stuck wetly to his back and shoulders. He had broad shoulders, like a swimmer, unlike most runners Dick had known. He was an attractive man. He remembered noticing before.

The hut looked like they all did: two beds, two footlockers, two nightstands, all clean and tidy and understated.

“Have you thought about tomorrow at all?” Wally asked.

“The jump? A little. I can’t really imagine it.”

Dick pushed the door closed and rested his back against it. He felt self-conscious standing in someone else’s bedroom, taking in the little details that set it apart from the others: the book on the nightstand, a single dirty sock lying under Wally’s bed, the missing letter in his footlocker tag ( _Moor_ , like an English landscape).

“Yeah, me neither.” Wally sat at the edge of the bed and rested a leg on the opposite knee, taking off his boot and sock. “Sometimes I think I must be crazy. I mean, our job is jumping from planes. It’s not—Well.”

“Normal?” Dick said softly, eyes captured for a moment by Wally’s long, naked foot.

“Yeah, right?”

“And yet,” Dick smiled, looking up.

“Yeah,” Wally smiled back.

They were silent for a while. Wally changed his socks and started putting on the boots, pulling the laces tight.

“Can I ask you a question?” Dick asked eventually, breaking the silence.

“Sure.”

Dick hesitated. It felt petty to waste another man’s time for something he should be able to sort out on his own, quietly and without bothering anyone.

“Have you ever—Do you think that one can be with a man like they would with a woman?” He peeked up at Wally’s face.

Wally seemed confused by the question. “As in biblically? Because that’s—”

“No. No. I mean something else.” Dick looked at his hands. “I mean. You’d be with this one guy, and that’s it.”

“Ah, that.” Wally’s voice got softer. “Well. There’s guys who like an arrangement. You know, a stable thing. You know what you get, and it’s safer.”

Something about the way Wally had described it made it sound like a business transaction, and that was not what Dick was driving at, not exactly.

“But you should know not to take it too seriously,” Wally continued. “It’s fine for a while, but you don’t want people talking behind your back.”

“And then what?”

“And then you find someone else.”

“And again and again, your whole life?”

Wally’s face darkened. “You don’t get to judge.”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to—understand.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

To this Wally nodded, pensively at first, then again. “I knew I was right,” he said eventually.

“You could’ve rubbed it in, that day.”

“What for? I know yes from no. Who cares if you’re not into cock in general or into mine specifically.” He chuckled, a little bitterly perhaps, but mostly with genuine humor. “It’s fine. Water under the bridge.”

Dick let out a thin smile, the other’s good-natured attitude easing the vague, mixed sense of guilt that accompanied Dick everywhere these days. “You’re a good man.”

“Yeah, sure. A legit saint, that’s what I am.” He got on his feet and stretched, massaging his neck, then headed to the door. “Let’s go,” he said patting Dick’s arm. “Before they start wondering if we’re sucking each other off or something.”

Dick frowned. “They wouldn’t—”

“Just a joke. Cheer up, Dick.”

After being in the shadows with wet clothes on, the sun felt nice on his skin. It was getting warmer by the minute as midday approached.

Nobody seemed to find it amiss that they’d been away for a while, a realization which flooded Dick with guilty relief. Maybe Nix did look at them in passing with a curious expression, but most likely it was Dick’s bad conscience playing tricks on him.

The scores were out, and Dick had ended up on top. Wally followed three positions down; the next Easy man was Matheson who’d placed sixth. Speirs held a solid fifth place, having lost a few points in the obstacle course, and Reed was too far down for his Currahee record to matter, should he get to replicate it.

“Did they say when it’s starting?”

“Ten minutes.”

Dick considered his options for a moment, then made up his mind. There was a mild knot in his right leg he’d like to get rid of before the race.

“I’ll go warm up,” he said.

“Thought you two’d be warm enough by now,” Nix said, and Dick froze.

“And that’s why you never win shit,” Matheson interjected, dropping two heavy hands on Nix’s shoulders. “All right, Nix, let’s get that flabby ass moving.”

In the end they all went jogging, the five of them, chatting amicably and calculating the time they needed to make for a shot at first place, and by the time they got back to the start Dick wasn’t thinking about Nix’s comment anymore, only about the imminent run.

It was undeniable that here Easy had an advantage: no other company ran up Currahee as often as they did. They would run it three times a week if the weather was bad, four if it was good, and one extra time in full gear if Sobel had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. Most nights they would go to sleep with the six miles in their legs, dream of the damn mountain and wake up with cramps.

The bottom half of the path was mostly well beaten, but there were bad spots that could make you trip, especially at night. The top half made for a downright miserable run, all rocks and potholes like the side of a volcano. Even those who excelled at it hated it.

Dick started at a comfortable pace, pushing just enough to remain on Wally’s tail. It felt slightly off to be running up the mountain freestyle, without the comforting rhythm of the Army paces: if he didn’t keep it in check, his body tended to fall back to the familiar airborne shuffle-quick time-double time-quick time sequence it played out most days. But that was not what he needed today to win.

The first mile and a half went nicely, as his body was warm and his leg was behaving, save for a minor stiffness at the back of the calf. Then came the hardest part: by the end of the second mile the rhythm of the ranks had dropped to a strenuous jog, breathing was labored and postures more and more hunched against the increasing slope.

Dick set to increase the pace steadily, gaining a few seconds over Wally and the rest. Accelerating at the hardest part of the run was a calculated risk, but he felt confident. He threw a quick glance behind, where Wally and Reed were progressively losing ground. Shortly before reaching the peak, the path bent sharply to the left, and then into a hairpin to the right. Past that the memorial stone was in sight, and then it was downhill all the way to the start.

He had almost reached the stone when his right calf tightened up like a vice, stiffening all the way to the back of the knee. He stumbled and barely avoided tripping on a rock that had just materialized in front of his foot, kicking it away instead, and stumbled forward to touch the stone and have his half-time marked.

Biting his lip to suppress the pain, he continued down the mountain at a stiff jog, passing Wally and the others on the way. In half a mile the cramp had eased a little, but at that point Wally had already whizzed past on his two good legs, and Dick knew that he wouldn’t catch him anymore. He managed to keep a decent pace ignoring the pain and the fatigue that had started to set in, and in the end he closed second.

He dropped on the ground like a stone, leg burning sharply. He stretched it and started massaging the cramp away, trying to set the pain aside and run the math in his head. He didn’t need to, though. Officers were still rolling down the side of the mountain when a hand reached out in front of his face and Colonel Sink pulled him energetically up to his feet, shaking his hand in a crushing, heartfelt grip.

“We’ve got our jumpmaster! Congratulations, Lieutenant Winters,” he said loudly, as if he was pinning a Silver Star to Dick’s chest.

And then in a completely different voice, more private and—Dick thought—proud: “Well done, son.”

  


**_2 October 1942, Atlanta_ **

 

On Friday night every officer of the 506th was in Atlanta and, to some degree, drunk.

Some, like Matheson, were properly intoxicated: a happy, jovial drunkenness that translated into forced proximity and louder-than-usual voices. Others, like Nix and Speirs, had been downing liquor steadily for over an hour but looked barely tipsy: they sat at a table close to the bar, playing cards with their best poker face on and their glass always half-full. Others still, like Winters, were as dry as a bone and yet the drunkest they’d been in their whole life.

The drinking—or not drinking—had started on Thursday at camp. It had seen a halt on Friday morning, and it had resumed with reckless abandon shortly after their plane had landed in Atlanta. Sink, as strong a drinker as they come, had offered a ride on a C-47 to all the qualified paratroopers of the regiment, a grand gesture which fit perfectly with the spectacular mood of the day.

Thursday had been the most glorious day of their lives. Thirty-six hours later they still had the roar of the C-47 twin engines raging in their ears. They could still feel the icy wind whipping their faces and the smooth metal frame of the door under their hands. They recalled the breathtaking pull of the parachute and how gravity had stopped existing for them only, for a moment, before cradling them gently to the ground. They were young and strong and five times in a day the world had been, literally, at their feet. Even the most intoxicating liquor could not hold a match to the sensation.

Dick was happy. The last days had been harsh on his body and a cleanse for his mind, eventually leaving him with aching limbs and quiet in his head, bad thoughts silenced for a while. He would definitely recommend parachuting for a troubled mind: his mind had never been clearer.

Something similar must have happened to Nix, because whatever had bugged him during the Junior Olympics now seemed forgotten, replaced by a quiet euphoria. He was back to his charming self, smiling, joking and playing host as if the poker table was in his mansion in New Jersey. He was winning too, which was no real indication of his alcohol level, as Nix was able to play even with a whole night of boozing and keep his finances relatively unscathed.

As if on cue, a groan came from the poker table, followed by a general cheer when Nix announced a round of free drinks. His prodigality was well-known to the officers and legendary among the men.

Nix stood up, glass freshly refilled, and walked over to Dick’s table in a wandering motion, like a bee, stopping here and there to exchange a few words.

“Do you know what the French say about water?” Nix asked, resting an elbow on Dick’s tall table with a flirty smile. In the dim light his eyes were sparkling and his lips were dark red.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Dick smiled.

“ _L’eau fait rouiller l’estomac_. Water makes your stomach rusty.”

“Good that this is soda, then.”

“Come on. The jumpmaster needs to be celebrating. Haven’t you read the manual?”

“Sure I have. And I am.” Dick touched Nix’s glass with his own, enjoying the soft tinkle it produced. “Cheers.”

Nix sighed exaggeratedly and took a sip of his drink. He climbed on the stool next to Dick, throwing a glance around to the packed club. The lights made him look tired, but then again, they all were. Happy and tired.

“Have you seen my boy yet?”

Nix took a small photograph from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. It was a baby in a lace gown, lying on his back, tiny hands curled up close to his ears. His face was funny the way newborn babies’ faces are, square and weirdly proportioned. His eyes were dark and wide open.

“He looks like you,” Dick said.

“Everybody says. I cannot see it.”

“Something about the eyes.” He smiled quietly at the photograph, feeling soft and bittersweet; it wasn’t exactly pain that he felt, more like a gentle burning in his chest, something he couldn’t quite put out but he could learn to get used to. “Michael, is it?” he said returning the picture.

“Michael John Nixon.” Nix threw a last glance at the photograph and pocketed it. “It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does. John your father’s name?”

“Kathy’s.”

Dick nodded, stopping short of asking the next question, but Nix supplied the answer anyway. “Dad was furious,” he declared with a happy grin.

Dick, who’d never done anything in his life for the sole purpose of spiting his parents, considered Nix’s childish glee and the bitter edge to it like he would a book written in a foreign language. “He’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, sure. Eventually.”

Nix looked around again. The club had a dance floor large enough for ten or fifteen couples, half full already with Army officers and their partners. The place was overrun by soldiers, but every now and then colorful tops stood out like buoys in the sea of olive drabs and a shrill treble rose above the deep rumble of male voices.

There was a pretty redhead looking their way. Nix, ever observant, had already noticed her; Dick had to follow his gaze to spot her in the crowd. She was good-looking, petite, with plump cheekbones and a juicy red mouth, and her smile was full of promise. Nix smiled back, then turned to Dick.

“I guess they wouldn’t mind being asked to a dance or two,” he said, tilting his head towards the girl.

Dick looked back and noticed a second girl, a brunette, sitting next to the first. The redhead said something and the brunette shot Dick a look over her shoulder, punctuated by a pretty little smile, before deliberately turning her head back to her friend.

“Why don’t you go on,” Dick said.

“C’mon, Dick. You don’t wanna make one of them feel left out,” Nix objected.

“Then invite both.”

“I can’t exactly handle two at the same time.”

“Can’t you?”

Nix flinched and looked away immediately, retreating into his drink. He looked so hurt for a moment that Dick felt a sharp pang of guilt and an urge to make it right.

“All right, then. Lead the charge,” Dick said getting off his stool.

The ladies were, in fact, only too happy to have company. They were nice, in the slightly intimidating way of single women, as they interacted casually enough but still watched the men with business-like scrutiny. As single women grew into their mid and late twenties, the act became more obvious, Dick thought, the way they scanned potential partners like goods on a fishmonger’s stall. Nix didn’t look intimidated by the scrutiny, though: cigarette in his mouth and a drink in his hand, he exuded power and confidence.

“What’s your poison, ladies?” he asked eyeing their depleted glasses.

“An Aviation for me,” said the brunette, with a coquettish smile.

“An Old Fashioned, please,” said the redhead, looking straight into Nix’s eyes with her impossibly long eyelashes.

“Now that’s a girl after my heart,” Nix declared, his voice dropping just enough for it to acquire a sultry note. “I’ll be right back. Take care of our jumpmaster for a sec, will you?” He shot a devilish smile to Dick, patted his shoulder and left him alone with the ladies and his tonic water.

“What’s a jumpmaster?” the redhead asked. Dick thought her name was Sally, or maybe Carly.

“It’s the first man to jump from the plane,” Dick answered.

“Sounds dangerous,” the brunette—Maggie—replied in a sweet voice, using ‘dangerous’ as a synonym for ‘exciting’.

“It’s smart, is what it is,” Sally or Carly replied, raising a finger with a perfectly lacquered nail. “If the plane gets hit you don’t wanna be sitting in the back.”

“What do you mean, it gets hit?

“The Jerries, silly. They shoot at our planes when they fly over, you know.”

“I know that,” Maggie snapped, even though she seemed unsure. She looked at Dick, toying with the toothpick in her empty Martini glass. “Have you jumped many times already, Dick?”

“Five times, in training.”

“Is it fun?”

Dick considered the question. They never talked of jumping in those terms, as if it were a recreational activity, but if he looked at it abstractly—the adrenaline rush, the endless descent, the final relief of solid earth below one’s feet…

“Best feeling in the world.”

“I beg to differ,” Nix interjected, producing a tray with a flourish worthy of an accomplished waiter. “Here we go. Aviation for our local Vivien, and an Old Fashioned for our very own Rita.” He placed a new glass of bubbly water in front of Dick and sat down with his whiskey. “Cheers.”

“God, I love a man who cannot remember my name,” the redhead laughed, raising her glass, and Dick hid a smile behind his.

“You got me there, miss,” Nix conceded. “To my defense, beautiful women always make me half deaf.”

“Now that’s real handy. So you don’t have to listen to the blah-blah,” she said, leaning over her glass, chin resting on the back of her fingers.

“Oh, but I want to,” Nix replied. “I live for it. For example, ladies. What is it that you do in this great city?”

“Oh, sweetie, you didn’t catch that either?”

“You didn’t—” Nix started, but then he realized she was making fun of him, and laughed. “All right, all right. Are you ever gonna take pity on me?”

“I could go on all night,” she declared with a smug little face. “Name’s Harley, by the way.”

Across the table, Maggie looked bothered behind her courtesy smile. She took a long sip of her drink and put it down, getting on her feet. “Dick, didn’t you mention a dance?”

He hadn’t. Nix turned to him with a smile that was all wrong: he was going for happy and encouraging, but he just looked wolfish.

Dick stood up and took Maggie’s hand, which disappeared in his palm. Her hand was soft, but the pads of her fingers had a funny, rubbery texture, and when he led her to the dance floor he couldn’t help asking: “Are you a typist?”

Maggie nodded. “Me and Harley both.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s all right. Do you like the Army?”

Dick smiled. “It’s all right.”

Maggie smiled back.

“Do you come here often?” Dick asked, to make a conversation.

“No, it’s the first time. We—we don’t go out all that much.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of invites.”

Maggie threw a glance at the table. “We do. Well. Harley does, mostly.” And then: “I think she likes him.”

“Yeah,” Dick agreed. “They generally do.”

Maggie turned her face upwards. “Is he good, though?”

“Yes,” he answered, without hesitation. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s got a ring.”

“They’re just drinking.”

Maggie looked at him with a strange expression, like she didn’t quite know what he meant by that. She was different out there on the dance floor, Dick thought, almost as if she had shed a layer: she didn’t seem so frivolous, nor so determined to enjoy herself. In fact, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself at all.

The song ended and a new one started: a slow, syrupy lament about lost love. Dick, who had taken his hand off Maggie’s side even though he had not dropped hers, looked at her eyes, waiting for a hint. Without a word Maggie edged closer and Dick took her back in his arms.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nix was leading Harley to the floor. They started dancing very close, more a gentle sway than any recognizable sequence of steps. Dick saw Harley’s lilac nails shine on the back of Nix’s hand like four tiny gems.

Maggie was also looking, but then she abruptly turned her head to the side, with so much ardor that her hair slapped the front of Dick’s jacket.

“Hey, are you all right?” Dick asked, squeezing her hand.

She looked like she was going to cry, but she didn’t. Instead she rested her cheek on Dick’s shoulder, facing inwards. Her face was warm and her breath smelled like crème de violette. She seemed sweet and unhappy, and for a second Dick was overwhelmed by something sappy and tender, perhaps an echo of an instinct to protect the female of the species. He bent his face to smell her hair, which was freshly washed, soft and wavy like new bedsheets. In another life, he thought.

With his chin still brushing Maggie’s hair, he looked up and immediately met Nix’s eyes. It was the strangest moment. Nix’s smile dried up on his lips like a wilting flower, and Harley followed his gaze and found Dick at the other end. The scene must have looked very amusing to her, for some reason, because Dick heard the immediate trill of her laughter. He didn’t hear what she said to Nix afterwards. Whatever that was, Nix’s reaction was to drop Harley’s hand to cup her face and bend down to kiss her.

Maggie let out a little gasp, almost inaudible over the music, wriggled free of Dick’s hands and took three quick steps towards the exit, eventually breaking into a clumsy run.

Dick hesitated, then turned to follow her, but before he could take a step Harley had already marched over to where he was standing, a minor thunderstorm on heels.

“Hey! What have you done to her, you—?” she hissed, eyes shooting daggers, and in lieu of finishing the sentence she slapped his face.

“What—” he started, but she was already gone. What was he supposed to do? He followed.

Outside, in the chill, Harley was holding Maggie’s wrists up, seemingly in an attempt to stop her from covering her face. They talked on top of each other in hushed, hurried voices.

“—talked about this, baby, we did, we did and you promised me—”

“—not okay, Harley, I can’t, I won’t—”

“—said you’d be good—”

“—married for God’s sake, he’s not even hiding it—”

“—why won’t you just listen—”

“—just _like_ it, don’t you? You just—”

“—what’s best for us—”

“—a slut, you’re just being a slut!”

Harley dropped Maggie’s hands as if they were hot plates. Maggie straightened her shoulders and with as much dignity a woman can muster with smeared makeup and snot bubbling in her nose, she said: “I’m going home.” She walked past her friend, saw Dick standing close by the door and kept walking without a word or a second glance.

That was the moment Nix chose to come out. He tried to ask Maggie something, but she rushed in like he was a homeless guy in a shady alley.

“What the hell did you do to her?” Nix muttered to Dick, looking back in utter confusion.

 _You don’t get it,_  Dick thought. _God Almighty, you really don’t get it._

He stepped over to Harley, who had her back turned to them, and put a hand on her shoulder with the gentlest possible touch.

“Why don’t we all go back in,” he said softly. “It’s cold out here.”

She shook her head. “I’ll—I’ll go home. Night’s ruined anyway.” She brushed her fingers under her eyes, taking away some of the black smudge. There was a big teardrop hanging from her eyelashes.

“You walking or taking a cab?”

“I’m—Cab.”

“Then we’ll wait until you two get in the car, all right?”

Harley nodded. She looked up at Dick’s face and reddened all the way up to her hairline. “Oh God, honey, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, touching his cheek with a cold hand. The touch was nice on his tingling skin. “You must think I’m hysterical.”

“It’s nothing,” Dick said. “I understand.”

“You’re kind. Too bad I can never find it in myself to like the kind ones.” She let out a trembling sigh. “I’ll go get my stuff.”

She touched Nix’s arm with an apologetic smile when she walked past him.

Nix rubbed the back of his head, shoulders hunched awkwardly. “Okay, I had not anticipated that,” he said.

Dick put his hands in his trousers pockets, eyes set on the road, and said nothing.

When the girls came back together, they both looked gloomy but calm. Dick stopped a taxi for them and opened the door to let them in.

“I’m really sorry,” Maggie said once she was seated, looking at her hands on her lap.

“No need. Will you be all right?”

She stole a sideway glance at her friend. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.”

“Take care then.”

The taxi went out into the night. Dick watched it go until it turned, then kept watching for a little longer. Nix lit a cigarette and offered him the pack, but he declined.

“She asked,” Nix said after a while.

“What?”

“If we were. You know.”

“If we were what?”

“Fruits.”

Dick looked at him for the first time since that glance across the dance floor. Suddenly he felt sick, like his stomach had been squeezed and turned upside down. Nix looked like he was expecting him to acknowledge that he had understood, but Dick couldn’t speak, not to him at least. He left so that he wouldn’t have to strike him in the face and put that too on the growing pile of things he regretted.

He went back in, and as soon as he was standing in the dim light a dead calm fell over him. He stepped over to a table, waited for the man sitting at it to notice him, then briefly touched his hand to the one resting on the man’s knee. He continued as if he hadn’t found what he was looking for and left the club quietly through the back entrance.

He started counting and while counting he inspected his surroundings, looking for something. At the count of ten he heard the steps and proceeded to the tiny alley he had spotted a little down the road. The other man joined him. The street was so narrow that not touching was impossible, but also beyond the point.

He put his hand on the back of Wally’s neck and pulled him close, covering the other’s mouth with his own. The other man kissed him back immediately, a wet, hungry one. Wally’s hands went up to cup each side of his face, and Dick decided that he liked that, being held like that, he liked the way Wally’s weight pinned him against the wall and he liked that the other man was immediately hard against his thigh.

“I’ve got a room,” Dick said in a breathy voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s not far.”

“We cannot go together.”

“I know. I’ll explain, it’ll be easy.”

Wally smiled, his thumb brushing Dick’s cheek in a way that, had they been more than army buddies, would’ve seemed a little affectionate. “Please.”

He gave Wally directions and left first. It was a cheap little hotel he’d found himself for the night, the kind where the reception is unattended most of the time. He hadn’t chosen it for secrecy reasons, only because it was fairly close to the train station and the price was good.

He walked past the reception and got into his room without meeting anyone. The room was warm, which was nice after a ten-minute walk in the evening chill, but he predicted it would be too warm later, so he opened the window. He took off his jacket and shoes, sat on the bed and set himself to wait.

Wally knocked thirty minutes later.

“Anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so. This place is good. Discreet. You been here before?”

“No, I just—” Dick stopped, realizing halfway through the sentence what Wally meant. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh?”

Dick frowned. “I mean—not like this.”

“That’s all right. But you have—?”

“Yes.”

Wally put a hand on the side of Dick’s neck, his fingers curling around the back. His head tilted to the side and his lips pressed softly and dryly on Dick’s mouth, every bit as gentle as his touch was, and just as confident. Dick responded by opening his mouth a little and Wally’s body inched closer, six feet of paratrooping muscle pressing him unapologetically against the door. Dick’s hand moved up to Wally’s bicep, gripping it as much for balance as for a simple desire to feel it. He opened his mouth a little more, and Wally’s tongue followed.

It was all different, Dick thought, the angle, the feel, the hand on the back of his neck. It was warm and welcoming and reciprocal, and he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it.

Wally pulled back from the kiss just enough to steal a glance. He looked amused and, at the same time, like he had just run the obstacle course again.

“You know,” he said softly. “I’m okay with most things, but right now I’d really appreciate it if you took me to bed and fucked me senseless.”

Dick smiled. He too was a little out of breath, and his hands were cold like they’d been while bracing against the plane door on his first jump.

“I believe that can be arranged.”


	4. Chapter 4

**_2 December 1942, en route to Atlanta_ **

 

On the second day of their march to Atlanta a winter rain started falling, a gentle drizzle that slowly grew into a vicious downpour. By the time they were given the order to set up camp, shortly before sunset, the rain had stopped and the ground had turned into a mud pool.

Men and officers were pitching their tents on the western side of the field, hoping that the last sun rays would dry up the ground a little before the long night.

Someone up at logistics had fucked up, so there weren’t enough tents for everybody. Dick walked around for a minute with his sleeping bag under his arm, trying the wet ground with his boots, until he finally settled on a relatively solid-looking spot by what would have been his tent if he hadn’t given up his spot. He checked which direction the wind was blowing and rolled out his sleeping bag so that the already set-up tent closest to him would shelter him from the worst of it. The simple act of standing up afterwards made him dizzy.

He wasn’t feeling all that great. Flu season had just started and this year he had not been granted his usual free pass. Unused to being sick, his body had reacted poorly. His reflexes were sluggish, his concentration fleeting under the blows of continuous headache, his body coordination a joke. He had managed the first day of march all right and soldiered through the second out of sheer will, because the men could not see him falter, but now, eighty miles under his belt and forty more to go, he seriously needed to lie down.

He resisted the urge to just crawl into his sleeping bag and be out till morning. There were things to do: make a quick round to see how the men had settled in, stand in line to get his chow, report to Sobel for orders. Since this was the least pleasant prospect of the three, Dick decided to get it done first.

Some of the officers were already congregating in front of Sobel’s tent. Matheson stood with folded arms, throwing impatient glances at the chow line. Nix was smoking and pacing around in the labored gait of aching feet, only pride preventing it from turning into a proper limp.  Moore sat on a crate, doubled over with his head in his hands.

“For fuck’s sake, Wally, go lie down,” Nix said with a mix of impatience and genuine concern. “You won’t get a medal for dying of sniffles.”

“I’m fine,” Wally’s voice came from somewhere close to his wrists.

Nix snorted but didn’t press on.

“Wally, where’s your tin?” Dick asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Backpack,” he mumbled. “It’s all right—I’m not eating.”

Dick exchanged a quick glance with Matheson, who nodded and went to pick it up. By the time he came back, Hester and the others had joined them too.

Strangely enough, Sobel was the last to appear. Usually his punctuality was impeccable, even more so when there was no prearranged rendezvous time, which made it easier to find fault with the other officers’ timing.

The march had not been kind on him. He was not in bad shape, but right now he looked like he would not be able to walk normally for some time. With effort he took his usual position, standing with his arms behind his back, while the others stood at attention.

“Colonel Sink is very pleased with our progress. New orders are to get to Five Points by ten-hundred on Friday.”

Dick breathed out through his nose, looking forward. They didn’t need deadlines to march faster; real food instead of bread with peanut butter and jelly would have helped more.

“We leave tomorrow at zero-six-hundred. We’ll make one break at thirteen-hundred for lunch and stop at twenty-hundred. And one last thing,” Sobel continued. “One platoon will open the parade in Atlanta. I expect that Easy Company won’t disappoint.”

“How will the platoon be chosen, sir?” Dick asked.

“This is not a beauty pageant, Lieutenant. You get all your men to the finish line on their legs, that’s it. Dismissed.”

“They’ll give us pom-poms and make us do cartwheels next,” Nix muttered when they moved down to the chow line.

“That how you spent your time at Yale, Nix?” Hester grinned.

“Sure, I managed my fair deal of pom-poms in my time,” Nix declared with a grin. He looked over to Dick to see if the joke had landed—it hadn’t, but mainly because Dick was having trouble paying attention—and his eyes fell on the two tins the other was holding.

“Moore doesn’t look too good,” Nix commented, throwing a glance behind his back.

“He’ll be all right,” Dick sighed, massaging his eyes. The cold air made it easier to breathe, but he could already feel the mucus press on his sinuses. It was going to be a painful one, he figured.

“You don’t look that great either,” Nix added with a frown.

“Nix, we’re fine,” Dick replied, perhaps more harshly than he had intended.

“Yeah, all right. Whatever.” Nix looked hurt and Dick immediately regretted his tone, but he felt too tired to apologize.

They moved a couple of steps forward. Nix unscrewed his canteen and brought it up to his lips, only to stop it there, as if struck by a thought. “ _We_ , huh,” he murmured, his voice echoing eerily inside the bottle.

Dick said nothing.

The cooks had managed to start a fire this time, so they were granted hot food, which was a relief. The only thing worse than Army chow on an upset stomach was cold Army chow.

Dick walked back with his hands full, palms warm around the metal containers. The tent was easily recognizable from the little tear which deformed one of the rope holes.

“You were not joking,” Wally croaked when Dick peeked through the entrance.

“Eat,” Dick said simply, handing him a tin.

Wally’s illness had struck before leaving Toccoa. Dick had noticed him sniffing and clearing his throat on Sunday, and now on Wednesday he made a sorry sight with his runny nose, wet eyes and hoarse voice.

Wally was sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag, and Dick crawled over to sit next to him. Nix’s sleeping bag was unrolled parallel to Wally’s, the tent so small that the two almost touched.

“You look like shit,” Wally said, still not touching his food.

“Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said don’t be. I’m joking.” He brushed Wally’s hand. “It’s not like I said no.”

“No, you didn’t,” Wally agreed with a thin smile, turning his soup around in the tin. “In fact—”

“Wally. Eat.”

Wally chuckled, which turned into a bout of coughing. When it was over he dipped his head and started eating slowly, face twisted in a grimace. Having forced him to eat, Dick sighed and started himself. It was not terrible, no more than usual at least, but his throat hurt and his stomach felt on the verge of rebelling at each swallow.

Two months in, and they had reached a comfortable spot where they knew exactly where they stood with each other. They’d met a few more times: brief, heated encounters in pay-by-the-hour motels off the beaten path. Dick knew that Wally saw other men, and he didn’t care as long as he took care of himself, which he knew he did. Still, he thought they were rather fond of each other; Dick for one found it hard not to be fond of Wally, who was a kind and considerate lover and simply one of the best men he knew.

“I heard we’re all getting Friday off after this,” Wally murmured.

“Mm-mm.”

Dick pretended not to catch the hint. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the idea, more like with the fever rising and forty miles still ahead of them, he just craved a long weekend of rest back at camp.

The sun was almost done setting. Dick pushed one of the flaps open, letting some of the reddish light inside, and breathed in as much humid air as he could through his one free nostril. All around, the men were slowly slipping into their tents and sleeping bags, as cigarettes were put out, and conversations faded away.

He let the flap fall closed. “Lipton covering for you?”

“Yeah, he offered to check on the boys. Look, if we squeeze a little—”

“—none of us will get any sleep,” Dick replied, same as the previous day. He patted Wally’s knee. “Good night.”

Nix was already checking on the men when Dick dragged his body over for the last duty of the day. He found him with Malarkey and Skip Muck. Malarkey had taken off his boots and socks. His ankles were swollen and his feet displayed an impressive set of bloody blisters, which must’ve been causing him a great deal of pain.

“Someone got you food, right, Malark?” Nix was asking.

“Yes, sir. Skip here did.”

“Good. What’s the feet situation? It doesn’t look great from over here.”

“It’s all right, sir. I got a new pair of boots after the last jump, but they’re too small. I’ll manage.”

“If it freezes over they’ll get even worse. Can you walk at all?” Dick asked.

Malarkey smiled awkwardly. “Not right now, sir. Don’t worry, I’ll make it.”

Dick exchanged a quick glance with Nix, who shook his head. “It gets any worse, I want you to ride in the ambulance,” he pointed at the dark spot of road where the ambulance was parked, though it couldn’t be seen anymore, “all the way to Five Points. All right, Malarkey? No heroes.”

“Yes, sir,” Malarkey answered, in a tone that didn’t mean to be insubordinate nor defiant, yet spelled out clearly that this one order he wasn’t going to obey.

Dick went through the rest of the rounds with Nix, whose limp looked more obvious once they were out of Malarkey’s sight.

“Word has spread,” Nix said with a frown. “About the goddamn parade.”

“Yeah. Not good,” Dick muttered. He inhaled sharply, the tip of his nose made insensitive by the cold. He cleared his throat and spat some excess goo to the ground.

Nix eyed him. Dick knew he would say something, because that was Nix—quick at taking hints and terrible at following them.

“You can have my spot in the tent, you know,” he said looking at his cigarette. “If you’d rather.”

Dick froze. “If I’d rather what?”

“I don’t know, Dick. Not freeze to death?”

Maybe he was just imagining things; he had a dirty conscience, after all. Nix wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t mean either, and he generally meant exactly what he said. Still, Dick had no idea how he would deal with him finding out. The thought made him vaguely sick.

“It’s fine. I’m not the only one. And yesterday was okay.”

“All right.” Nix looked at him sideways, almost bashfully. “It’s a little weird, you know. I mean, no complaints, but you get used to your roommate.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, thinking of that first morning in Atlanta, waking up next to a man who wasn’t Nix. It had been weird all right. “A bit like college.”

“Yeah.” Nix considered the thought for a moment. “Minus the drinking. Well, for you at least.”

Dick smiled, a little painfully. His head had started spinning and he felt like his batteries were quickly running out.

“You know, I could really use a little help here,” Nix said suddenly. “I’ve been wrapping my head around it, but I don’t think I can fix it on my own.”

“Fix what?”

“Us.”

Dick swallowed. It hurt. “Nix—”

“I want us back the way we were. Before. How do I do that?”

“It’s not possible,” Dick said.

“Of course it is. Why not?”

“You know why not.”

Nix rubbed his face with a sigh. “It was fine. It worked. It worked just fine,” he muttered.

“Nix, it didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Dick shut his eyes, headache closing in around his temples like a vice. He opened them. Nix looked concerned, in a sort of caring, sweet way. It was unfair, that look, unfair and dangerous. It made you want for more than you could have.

“I was miserable.”

Nix closed his mouth and looked in all honesty like the thought had never crossed his mind.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dick added, because he truly believed that his happiness had never been Nix’s responsibility.

Nix said nothing, to which Dick responded with a sigh. They’d never been good at confrontation. They were fundamentally mismatched: Dick tried to avoid it as much as possible but, once engaged, needed to lay it all out and be done with it; Nix looked for resolution at every turn but always pulled back one step shy of getting it.

“Good night, Nix.”

The question reached him when he had already turned to leave, much like an afterthought.

“So you’re happy now?”

He considered. It wasn’t something he asked himself too often.

“No,” he said at last. “But it’s all right.”

He went back to his spot, brushed his teeth with a sip of water from his canteen and finally, in the near-dark, took off his boots and slipped into the sleeping bag.

The headache relented when he laid his head down; constellations rotated a little too fast for a moment, but he closed his eyes and when he opened them they had stopped moving, almost.

He didn’t hear Nix walk to his tent. He was asleep in seconds.

In the dream he was back at Toccoa, crawling on his elbows amidst pig entrails, machine guns firing live rounds above his head. The ground was wet and cold and the animal stench was sinking into his clothes. Nix was crawling next to him, cursing Sink’s brilliant ideas, and all around the rain was turning the field into a mud pool.

“A hot shower. My kingdom for a hot shower,” Nix groaned.

“Not for another two hours,” Dick replied, checking his watch.

“Damn.”

“Cheer up, Nix. I heard rumors of a special dinner tonight.”

“Please, let it not be pork.”

Dick chuckled, crawling forward. The setting was realistic enough to give you a thrill. He wondered if they would be talking like this in real combat, or if the tension would make them all focused and business-like. He was half sure that Nix would sound like Nix in any situation.

“So,” Nix muttered when they stopped between a section of barbed wire and the next. He crawled a little closer. “I’ve been wondering. If you were, I don’t know. Seeing someone. You’d tell me, right?”

Dick pretended not to hear the question.

“Like the girl you’ve been meeting in town,” Nix insisted.

“Nix, of all places—”

“I just don’t see why you wouldn’t tell me.”

He considered the thought for a moment and decided that no, he wouldn’t have told Nix about the girl he had been meeting in town, not even if she hadn’t been a six-foot-tall paratrooper.

“I’m not,” he said at last. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

The expression on Nix’s face was a strange mix of disappointment and hope. “Because you could tell me. I wouldn’t m—I mean, I’d be happy for you.”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” Dick repeated, now looking him straight in the eye. He wondered if there was a way, albeit rhetorical, for it not to be a lie. He decided there wasn’t.

“All right. Good to know.” What hurt the most was how relieved Nix looked at the confirmation. Dick had to look away to hide his reaction, lest Nix read every last painful thought that was crossing his mind straight on his face.

He was shivering now, his wet clothes freezing on his body, his face rigid with cold. He turned to mention it to Nix, but he wasn’t there. Gone were the barbed wire and the pig innards and even his gun. He opened his eyes to find himself at the Oglethorpe campus. It was snowing on his face; when a snowflake touched his hot skin, it melted immediately and the resulting water droplet ran down his cheeks like a tear.

He tried to recede further into his sleeping bag, but there was no space. He felt weak and restless, his skin tingled and his body ached all over, not just the muscles but every little bit of flesh and bone that normally didn’t register. He closed his eyes, exhausted, and despite the discomfort he fell asleep again in a few minutes.

The new dream was in New York, and unlike a field littered with pig innards, New York was a place where he’d never been before. It was Christmas time and the city looked like a postcard, the way Dick always imagined it would: crowded, bright with lights and covered in a thick layer of snow.

He needed to buy something: funnily enough, a bottle of whiskey. He knew the brand he wanted and had the address of a store written down, but when he got there, they were out. He left and crossed over to the next shop, only to be told the same thing. He asked for directions to a third store, which was a bit far, and headed there thrusting his freezing hands deep into his pockets.

He didn’t remember why it was so important that he got the whiskey, but he knew he couldn’t give up. So when even the third place let him down, he started to feel very frustrated. The lady behind the counter, who looked a little like his mother, suggested that he try the department store two blocks down. _They have something to suit all tastes_ , she said with a kind smile.

It was a huge place, seven floors packed full with anything money could buy and the most impressive liquor display Dick had ever seen, not that he would normally care. He got his prize and left the store in a hurry, because he was running very late.

The building was an elegant three-storey row house with a big stained glass door and a pot full of flowers that couldn’t possibly bloom in December. Dick ran to the door and pressed the bell as if it were the timer on a stopwatch.

Nix smiled. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He was wearing his uniform, and, as a matter of fact, so was Dick.

_You’re late. I didn’t think I’d live to see the day._

_Had to get you something_ , Dick said, out of breath. His heart was thumping as he handed over the dark bottle.

Nix’s smile grew. He grabbed Dick’s wrist, bottle and all, pulled him inside and closed the door behind his back, pushing him against it. He put his palm on Dick’s forehead; it felt cold and nice on his burning skin.

 _I don’t like waiting_ , Nix said softly. He was hard against Dick’s body and his smile was impossibly, unrealistically white.

 _Then don’t_ , Dick said.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” Nix cursed under his breath.

_What—_

“I offered, didn’t I?” the mumbling continued. “But no, not Dick fuckin’ Winters. God forbid you look just human for once.”

With a struggle he managed to open his eyes, which felt teary and burning. “Lew—” he croaked.

“It’s all right, buddy. We’ll get you warm now. Can you walk?”

Dick nodded reflexively, even though he had no idea if he could. Nix peeled him out of the sleeping bag and the cold assaulted him, making him shake all over. His teeth started chattering furiously.

“Lean on me, like this. I got you. Back to sleep, boys, nothin’ to see here. All right—almost there.”

Dick was vaguely aware that he was treading in the mud in his woolen socks: every step felt like dragging himself through thick, icy molasses.

Inside the tent it was dark, the air warm and stuffy. Nix carefully put him down and took off his muddy socks, swiftly exchanging them for a fresh pair, then bent Dick’s legs and guided them into the sleeping bag. He pulled the zipper up to Dick’s chest.

The sleeping bag was so warm he could have cried with relief. It smelled like Nix (cologne, smoke, sweat) and so strongly, too, that he could feel it even through his blocked nose.

“Is he all right?”

“I think so. Fever’s rising though.”

They said something else he didn’t catch, then Nix left. Dick wanted to stop him, get up, talk all at once, but found that he was too exhausted to do any of these things. All he could do was turn his face into the inner lining of the bag, breathing in the comforting scent. He probably lost consciousness for a moment there, because he came back with a gasp when Nix touched his face.

“All right, drug fairy’s here.” Nix opened the zipper a little and ran his arm around Dick’s shoulders, pulling him up.

“’m awake,” Dick slurred. “I’m awake.”

“Sure you are. Open your mouth.” Nix put two pills into his mouth and brought a canteen up to his lips, keeping it there until Dick took a few gulps. “Good boy. Now off to sleep with you.”

“Wait—Nix. Wait. Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“No. This is your—” He pulled himself up to an elbow, but the sudden movement set off a sharp pain in his head, like a saw blade cutting through his skull. He touched his face. “I’ll just—”

“You lie down, you ridiculous man. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s too cold.” He didn’t even know what he meant, that it was too cold outside for Nix or inside without him. Regardless, either the words or the pleading tone seemed to tip Nix over. He heard him mumble something about impossible patients and saw him leave again and come back with a thick woolen blanket that smelled like a wet dog. Nix wrapped himself in it and lay down on his side, half on the tarpaulin that lined the bottom of the tent and half in Dick’s lap. His arm wrapped around Dick’s chest and his face came to rest on the puffy fold of the sleeping bag.

“You happy now?” Nix whispered, his breath hot on Dick’s cheek.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine.”

Dick pulled a hand out of the sleeping bag and found Nix’s fingers under the woolen blanket. They were cold. He covered them with his own, thinking he’d let go as soon as Nix tried to move away, but Nix didn’t. He just exhaled slowly on Dick’s jaw and remained very still.

“This reminds me,” Dick started in a whisper, but sleep caught up on him halfway through the sentence.

Nix’s weight next to him on his bed at Benning, the sound of his breathing while he slept, the smell of his cologne which was strongest in the nook of his neck. His hand on Dick’s face, his eyes dark and open and full of intentions. _You could come with_ , he had said, and then he’d fallen asleep in Dick’s bed after a night of celebration, though there was nothing to celebrate because he was shipping out to California and Dick was going God knows where—or maybe he hadn’t been celebrating at all, maybe he’d been just heartbroken and sad and celebrating had seemed the only acceptable way to deal with it. He had come back to Dick though, and here he was now, saying impossible things like _I might write_ and _You could come with_ and _I’m so fond of you_ and falling asleep in Dick’s bed and touching his face and not kissing him.

But this was a dream, and things went differently this time.

Nix looked down at Dick’s lips and bent forward, a necessary act at this point, his body readjusting on top of Dick’s for the sole purpose of reassuring him that this was, in fact, what he wanted. Dick forgot that there were other people in the barracks and forgot all about three months at Toccoa, the way things are forgotten in dreams. Nix’s hands pulled Dick’s shirt up and pants down, bedsheets a sweaty lump at the end of the bed, and they ran hot on Dick’s cold hips and legs, making him shiver with anticipation. _How do you want to be fucked_ , he asked, and Dick swallowed and said, _Please_. Next he found himself sprawled on his back under Nix’s body, all clothes gone, his left leg hooked high over Nix’s shoulder and Nix driving hard and deep into him. He was frustrated to have missed out on so many precious sights (had he undressed Nix or had Nix stripped down for him?), but Nix said, _Look at me_ and his face was a sight of its own: his burning eyes, the single sweat drop running down his temple, the little spasms and twitches disrupting his smile. It was hot now, uncomfortably so, but Nix was moving at exactly the right pace and hitting an exquisite spot inside him, and he felt so incredulously happy that it was easy to ignore the discomfort, take himself in hand and simply let the pleasure swipe him away.

He woke up somewhere in the small hours of the morning to the sound of Nix snoring softly on his chest. In the course of the night Nix must have huddled closer for warmth, because Dick found himself pinned down to the ground by the right half of Nix’s body draped regally over his.

He felt clammy with sweat and his forehead was cool, headache temporarily gone. He could feel the mucus at the back of his throat and behind his cheekbones, but he could breathe all right. More urgently though, he needed to piss.

He didn’t want to wake Nix. Somehow their fingers were still locked together, and Dick was sure that such a precious moment wouldn’t happen again. He allowed himself a minute to take in the scene: Nix’s head tucked under his chin, Nix’s chest rising and falling steadily, Nix’s body wrapped in the blanket.

In another time and place they might be able to stay in bed until a ridiculous hour, nine or ten, and have breakfast waiting for them when they finally decided to get up. They would shower together to wash off the traces of the nightly activities, or perhaps have a bubble bath if they’d splurged, and they would get distracted and end up eating their breakfast cold. Finally, before they left the room, Nix would kiss him like Dick had kissed Wally once, when he had been feeling a bit soft: not hungrily, not driven by lust, just a simple kiss to say, _Goodbye, see you soon_.

There it was again, the gentle burning in his chest, the tender spot he couldn’t stop poking at. With a sigh he untangled their fingers and rearranged Nix’s body as slowly as he could, in incremental little motions, until he could sneak out of his sleeping bag. Incredibly, Nix didn’t wake up.

He stole Nix’s boots and walked to the outskirts of camp, settling for a spot by a solitary tree. He felt a little weak but steady enough on his legs, and optimistic for the rest of the march. He’d have to stay medicated, but he would see it to the end.

Then, with any luck, he’d be off to Fort Benning to sleep for the following forty-eight hours, and this too would end up on the pile of things that had never happened.


	5. Chapter 5

**_23 January 1943, Fort Benning_ **

 

Few knew and even less cared that January 21 was Dick Winters’ birthday. He didn’t particularly care himself, so much so that the day had started already for a few hours before he was reminded of the date by an uncannily punctual birthday card from his family. It was wrapped in an envelope and signed by all three of them (Mom, Dad, and little Ann). He frowned a little when he opened it and a money bill fell into his lap, but returning it would have offended them, so he pocketed it with bittersweet gratitude. And that was it as far as celebrations went.

He had mostly forgotten about it until later in the day. He and Wally were fresh out of the showers and changing back into their uniforms to go to lunch—the last two of the company, apparently, which was uncharacteristic of either of them, but Wally had slowed him down engaging him in a conversation about field exercises.

“Do you still have a pass this weekend?” Wally asked abruptly, eyes straight on the shaving mirror.

“Yes, why?” Dick asked back.

“I’d like to take you somewhere nice.”

The proposal was phrased in such an odd way that Dick thought it a joke. He smiled and glanced quickly around to make sure everybody was gone. “What, you buying me flowers too?”

“I’m serious. Dinner out. My treat.”

Dick’s smile faltered a little. “What kind of a dinner would that be?”

“The birthday kind.” Wally cast him a glance, the corner of his mouth twitching with humour.

Dick bit his lip. The last time they had met outside of camp had been before Atlanta.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Why not.”

So on Saturday evening they left separately and met, as if by accident, in Columbus. The town was flooded with young men in olive drabs, which made Dick feel restless. On his way to the restaurant he’d met a group of his men and he’d awkwardly deflected their surprise at finding him out on a Saturday night. _Are you out on a date, Lieutenant?_

“Hey,” Wally said, hands in his pockets. He smiled faintly. “You look like you took a bullet in your foot.”

“No, just—Let’s get out of the street.”

Wally led the way to a tiny family-owned restaurant, cozy and demure and clearly a work of love. A middle-aged woman came with water and bread and menus scribbled on paper and left them alone to pick their orders.

“I was afraid you’d pick some fancy French place,” Dick smiled when they were seated.

“You wish. I don’t have that kind of money,” Wally declared.

Dick lowered his eyes, scratching the tablecloth with a fingernail. “Business still bad?”

“Yeah. Now they’re saying they won’t reopen the tracks until the end of the war.”

“That’s harsh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. We got savings, I got my pay.” Wally’s hand on the table almost stretched to touch Dick’s fingers, but he went for the glass instead. “Hey, happy birthday.”

Dick lifted his glass and toasted with water. “Thanks. How did you know?”

“I heard it from Nix, like, ages ago. I have a good memory for dates.”

“Nix?”

“Yeah. I think it was the night after the Junior Olympics. He was wasted and complaining that nobody had remembered his birthday. We guessed back home it was a public holiday, Lewis Nixon Day or something,” Wally grinned. “Matt said nobody gives a shit about anybody’s birthday and asked Nix if he could name one. And he did: he knew the birthdays of all the Easy officers. Sobel too.”

“That’s funny,” Dick said. “He didn't say anything to me.”

He thought about it: they had barely seen each other on Thursday and Friday, Strayer having involved Nix unofficially in some kind of logistics detail as he did more and more often. Dick had met him at mealtime and then briefly at night, before going to bed, but they hadn’t really talked.

“Payback for his birthday,” Wally declared, biting on a breadstick.

Dick shook his head. It was weird, talking about Nix in a public place, and with Wally of all people. It made his skin tingle unpleasantly.

So he changed the topic to home instead, to the outworldly experience his recent furlough had been, to the discomfort of being paraded around by his parents like a trophy even though he’d done nothing, accomplished nothing. Wally had a similar story, most of them did. Home was a foreign land.

“They’re proud,” Wally said.

“Of what?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s nice for a change,” he answered, cradling his glass intently.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Pop—Well. Let’s just say we’ve had our differences.”

“What about?”

“Poor choice of partners.”

Dick nodded sympathetically. He didn’t know what he would do if his parents found out; he had been trying to prepare himself for it for years and still had no clue. A part of him thought that he’d rather shoot himself than witness the disappointment and revulsion on his mother’s face.

“Bad?”

“Hell. Good news is, since I joined up, everything’s been peachy. He’s never been happier. Poor man, you gotta love the irony.”

“So maybe he’s proud of you for the wrong reasons,” Dick said. “You’ll give him some good ones soon.”

Wally smiled. He had a sweet smile, and sometimes when Dick saw it he felt something, a softness that was as simple and homey as the little restaurant.

“This is nice,” he said, trying his food.

“Yeah, right? Someone recommended it to me. I can’t remember—”

“I mean this.” He gestured between Wally and himself with the fork.

“Sure is.” Wally’s smile grew and for a moment he looked like he was going to say something Dick might not want to hear, but the moment passed. Wally leaned over the table instead, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I got a plan to walk you home later, and if you let me hold your hand, I’ll write all about it to Mom.”

Dick laughed and blushed at the same time, because Wally’s tone had reminded him of all sorts of other things they could do that were equally nice, although perhaps not as novel, as going out on a date.

They ate unhurriedly, enjoying the welcome change of pace, and when they finally left Dick felt sated and content, and like he wouldn’t mind just going to sleep.

As he walked alone to the hotel Wally had picked, key in his pocket, he mulled over the image of Nix drunkenly complaining about his neglected birthday.

There was a petty streak to Nix’s character, a trace of a spoiled upbringing that Dick had observed in privileged kids all his life. Nix managed to keep it in check most times, but alcohol had a way of stripping men of their carefully built restraints, baring a core of needs and bad habits they wouldn't otherwise show.

He got in sight of the hotel’s door. He’d have gone in immediately, but a group of soldiers were hanging around on the other side of the street, beers in hand, and Dick didn’t want to be seen. He retreated into the alley he’d come from, hoping they’d leave soon. From where he stood he could hear their voices, loud and jovial. They were talking about ladies the way kids not even in their twenties talk about ladies, like a precious commodity hard to come by but to be spent liberally. They sounded happy and vain and like they hadn’t a single care in the world, and for a moment Dick envied them so much that he felt something tight in his throat. In a second it was gone, though, and in a minute they were too. With the coast clear, Dick crossed the door and walked straight up the stairs.

He must’ve psyched himself up thinking about Nix first and with those soldiers later, because while he walked up he couldn’t avoid feeling uneasy. He half-expected someone he knew to pop out of a door at any moment, but of course nothing happened. He found room twelve and got in somewhat hastily, locking the door behind.

Still feeling off, he removed his jacket and hanged it carefully on the back of the chair. When Wally knocked he let him in and went to sit on the bed. He felt awkward and jumpy for no reason at all; he could feel the tension in his shoulders.

“Hey,” Wally said, coming to sit next to him.

“Hey.”

They were silent and still for a moment, not touching, until whatever had come over Dick passed and he felt more at ease, more in control. Wally was still waiting, peacefully, like he had all the time in the world. Dick leaned over, cupping the other’s face in his hand, and pressed a kiss to his lips, which were thin and perpetually dry. Wally hummed his appreciation and kissed back, draping an arm lazily around Dick’s shoulders.

He still had all of his clothes on; reflexively, Dick dipped a thumb inside Wally's jacket collar, pinching out a little crease at the back.

“So, birthday boy,” Wally murmured, turning his head to brush his lips on Dick’s knuckles. “About your gift.”

“Do I get one?”

“Here’s a thought. You say one thing you wanna do, and we do exactly that.”

Dick smiled at the proposal, but his smile faded immediately when his brain provided the easy answer, the one that made his heart race. He swallowed. “Take off everything waist-down.”

Wally smiled. He untied his shoes and threw them aside with his socks, then got on his feet, opened his trousers and pulled them down, folding them away on the chair. Finally he took off his underpants and put them on top of the trousers. The whole operation had taken no longer than twenty seconds, each movement swift and exact as if rehearsed countless times over. He stood in silence under Dick’s scrutiny.

Dick slid off the bed and onto the floor on one knee. He ran his hands on the back of Wally’s thighs, feeling the muscles flex under his fingers and the soft hair rise in a ghost of goosebumps. Wally’s cock stirred under the hem of the jacket.

“Sit down,” Dick said, manoeuvering him onto the bed. Once he had him sitting he knelt properly between his legs, making himself comfortable for a long stay. He hated ruining his trousers, but being fully clothed was an essential part of this.

He ran his hands on Wally’s thighs, thumbs sliding up the inner side, where the skin was tender and the hair thinned out by the continuous friction of the pants. He bent to place a kiss on either side, exactly on the spots his thumbs had marked, and Wally instinctively opened his legs to give him a wider access. His lips still on Wally’s skin, Dick sneaked his hands under the back of Wally’s knees and pushed them gently upwards, bringing them to rest on his shoulders.

Wally was leaning back on his hands and looking at him with a curious, amused expression. Without a warning Dick tugged at his legs, pulling him closer to the edge and down on his elbows.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Wally chuckled.

“Quiet. The neighbors,” Dick reminded him.

Satisfied with their relative positions, Dick bent his head down to resume where he had left off, tracing a slow downward trail with his lips toward Wally’s groin. Experimentally, he grazed his teeth over a tender spot close to Wally’s ballsack and smiled at the hiss that came in response.

Wally’s cock was very hard now, resting long and pink on the left half of his jacket. Dick placed a wet kiss at the base and pressed his tongue where he had kissed, driving it upwards in an excruciatingly slow journey all the way up to the head.

Wally sighed softly, but Dick didn’t look up. That was also quite essential. He reached around to grip the base of the cock and took the head into his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the slice of Wally’s stomach he could see peeking under his shirt. A dark trail of hair disappeared up there, and Dick took a mental note of following it all the way at some point. He took as much of the length in his mouth as he could without making a mess of it and then retreated, repeating the motion a few times.

Wally sucked in a sharp breath. Dick felt the other man’s fingers thread through his hair without quite holding onto it, and God, that was a lovely addition, one he hadn’t thought of yet. He left Wally’s cock and moved his head down to kiss his balls. “Yes,” he breathed. “I like that.” Wally’s fingers tightened and pressed a little, and Dick showed his appreciation by sucking one nut gently, then the other, rolling both of them slowly on his tongue.

Some buried part of him was ashamed of this: not the act itself, but the fantasy behind it. Wally certainly deserved a little better than to be used as proxy; at the very least he deserved to be looked at. But if Dick _didn’t_ look—if he let the illusion carry on unshattered—then it was damn near perfection. And besides, it wasn’t like he was the only one enjoying it.

“Oh fuck,” Wally groaned from deep inside his throat, fingers digging lightly in Dick’s scalp, as Dick took him in all the way up to the roof of his mouth. Dick hummed a second warning around his flesh, pulling back far enough to roll his tongue back and forth against the sensitive spot at the base of the head. Wally didn’t articulate words this time, but he let out a strangled sound between a sigh and a gasp, sharp and extremely gratifying. Dick did it again just to see if he could get another one, and when he did, he rewarded Wally by moving on to sucking him off in earnest, in long and increasingly faster strokes, feeling him twitch and tense and shift his weight on Dick’s shoulders.

He put his left hand on Wally’s hip, pressing it flat on the bed, and leaned his head forward on Wally’s cock, stroking the shaft in his right hand as he licked and sucked off the head. Wally tensed and his fingers grabbed a handful of Dick’s hair, holding him still as he came into his mouth with a series of liberating little grunts. Dick let himself be held in place, revelled in the sensation of the other’s pleasure being spent inside him, and swallowed dutifully until it was over.

He wasn’t hard anymore, though he couldn’t have said when that had changed. All tension released, a strange feeling was now creeping on him, a curious sense of misplacement: like not only was Wally not who he was supposed to be, but Dick too wasn’t himself, and they were just fill-ins for someone who hadn’t been able to make it to the party.

Eventually he put Wally’s legs down on the floor and went to the bathroom to rinse his mouth. He washed his face and looked at himself in the cracked mirror hanging on top of the sink: his hair was dishevelled, his lips a bright pink, his eyes looking wild.

_So, you’re happy now?_

When he reemerged Wally was still lying on the bed, looking like he was holding off sleep just out of courtesy.

“Hey,” Wally murmured, stretching his neck. “Mind if I take these off?” He tugged at his uniform.

“Yeah, sure,” Dick said distractedly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Wally undressed and walked naked into the bathroom. Dick heard the tap run for a while, then Wally came back and picked up his underpants from the chair, put them on and went to lie down on top of the coverlet behind Dick. He didn’t say anything, nor did he try to touch him or pull him close.

Dick took his face in his hands.

After what seemed like a long time, though probably it had only been a minute, he felt Wally sit up and a warm hand draw a slow circle on his back.

“Come here,” he said softly.

“I’m done for the night,” Dick snapped.

Wally sighed, and Dick thought that that had been a really shitty thing to say to him, of all people. He was already opening his mouth to apologize, but Wally was faster.

“Suit yourself, only I like a little cuddling after, so—if you don’t mind.”

Dick turned around. Wally looked concerned rather than hurt, which was better, though not by much. He lay himself down on the bed, kicking off his shoes, and Wally slung an arm loosely around Dick’s shoulders. His hand came to rest on the back of Dick’s neck, idly stroking the top of his spine under the shirt collar.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said, because it felt like the right thing to say and because he truly was, for many reasons, though not all strictly relevant.

“Not for me, please. I had the best time over there.”

“It wasn’t—fair.”

“Dick, I honestly don’t give a damn if you get hard thinking I’m the pope.”

That got a smile out of Dick, but the smile faded when Wally spoke next.

“It’s Nix, right?”

Dick swallowed. “How do you know?”

“You gotta be blind and deaf not to see it. Christ, the way he perks his ears and sniffs the air when you’re around. I swear, once he was standing so close, I thought he’d start rutting on your leg.”

“That’s not—We’re not. Nothing happened,” Dick said quickly, defensively.

“Really? _That_ was a hell of a something for nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Dick repeated, feeling like he didn’t care much if the other believed him or not.

Wally sighed. “Look. I know you didn’t ask for advice,” he said slowly, folding his free arm under his head. “You can tell me to go to hell if you want. But you really—hell, you don’t wanna get involved in that kind of mess.”

Dick frowned. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good guy. A good officer. And I’m sure he’s a good friend—though how would I know, seeing as he keeps me at arm’s length.”

“So maybe he doesn’t like you,” Dick replied. “We all have our preferences.”

“Yeah, sure. But—Look, he  _knows_. About me. He can smell it on me same as I can smell it on him. And he hates me for it.”

For a moment they regarded each other like the magnitude of the thing Wally had said deserved a moment of silence to let it sink in.

“Nix doesn’t hate those like us,” Dick said dryly, wriggling free and propping himself up on his elbow.

“He told you that?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know?”

 _He doesn’t hate me,_ Dick wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“He doesn’t,” he repeated, more firmly.

Wally looked mortified. “I’m sorry. Forget I said anything, okay? None of my business.” He touched Dick’s jaw, brushed his fingers lazily on the knot of his tie. “What do you wanna do? We got an hour till the last bus.”

Dick caught his hand and pushed it away—not roughly, but not all too gently either. “I’m going back.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. I’ll hitchhike.” Dick turned and sat on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes. “Or I’ll walk.”

“That’s—what, nine miles?”

“It’s all right. It’s not raining.”

“Hey—C’mon. Dick. Don’t be like that.”

Dick went over to the chair and collected his jacket and coat, leaving in their place what he estimated would be about half the price of the room.

He walked back to the bed. Wally looked like he was trying to figure out what Dick was thinking. Dick wasn’t sure himself, but he didn’t want to part on bad terms just because of one careless remark. He squeezed Wally’s shoulder, the gesture awkward and possibly more damaging than helpful, said goodnight and left.

  


**_24 January 1943, Fort Benning_ **

 

He got to his quarters some time after zero-one-hundred, having hitchhiked half of the way and walked the rest. The exercise had helped somewhat: now he just felt tired, a familiar condition, rather than utterly miserable.

Nix’s bedside lamp was on, which he found strange as Nix was never back on a Saturday night before the small hours—that is, if he made it back at all. But no, there he was, alone, lying fully dressed on his bed. The other two beds were empty, their owners still out on a pass or busy at the officers’ club.

Dick took in the bottle of Vat 69 spent on the floor, the glass in Nix’s hand, his jacket in a crumpled pile on the bed, and suppressed a sigh. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Nix wanted to be kicked out. Perhaps he had tired of the paratroopers like he had tired of things before—college, the family business, his wife—and he just couldn’t muster the nerve to be up and done with it.

“Hello,” Nix said, raising his glass in a mockery of a toast.

“Hi, Nix.” Dick went to his footlocker, picked up his toothbrush and paste and went to the latrine to brush his teeth. When he came back, Nix hadn’t moved.

“I was in town earlier.”

Dick made a noncommittal sound, turning his back to him as he started to undress. His shirt looked like he had slept in it, and the less said about his trousers, the better.

“Got you a present.” Nix produced a small parcel from under his back and threw it over to Dick across the room. “Happy birthday.”

“Well, thanks,” Dick said, surprised, turning the parcel around in his hands. “You didn't have to.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Dick opened the wrapping, revealing a leather box, and inside the box a shiny new wristwatch. The inner lining was stamped with the name and address of a New York shop.

“Thank you, Nix,” Dick said again. “But this looks—”

“What? You don't like it?”

“I do. I was gonna say, it looks expensive.”

Nix chuckled, bringing the glass up to his lips. “Only the best for my bosom friend,” he declared, though there wasn't much warmth in his voice, only a forced, intoxicated joviality.

He put the glass down. His eyes fixed on Dick’s face, slightly out of focus. “I saw you. In town.”

Dick kept at bay the sense of impending doom that was creeping up on him. “Really?” he said, putting the box down on his nightstand. “You could’ve said hi.”

“Didn’t wanna bother.”

“You never do,” Dick replied.

Nix smiled, then scoffed, like Dick had made a funny enough joke but not quite worthy of a laugh. “That’s cute.” He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, leaning in with his elbows on his knees, glass still in hand. “Hey, I got a question for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick said, turning to face him, tie discarded and shirt still hanging from his fingers.

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it all night, but I can’t figure it out.”

“All right?”

Nix downed the half full glass, making a face as he swallowed. He looked up. Dick thought that he looked proper drunk, which for Nix meant a hell of a lot of drinking.

“Who’s the woman?”

Dick’s ears started ringing softly. “I told you, there’s no woman.”

“No, no. Yeah. I mean—” Nix gave a chuckle, interrupting himself. The glass hanged loosely from his fingertips, swinging through the air as he gestured. “That’s good. God, you’re a riot after midnight. Why do we never talk at this hour?”

“All right, Nix,” Dick replied. He walked over to him, taking the glass from his unresisting fingers. “You had your nightcap. Go to sleep.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t answered my question.”

“I said there’s no woman. Go to—”

“I’m asking,” Nix articulated slowly, touching the hand which held the glass, “which one of you is the woman.”

Dick had a distant realization that he had, in fact, been bracing for this. He had been expecting it for months, counting on it even; he had taken every possible care to prevent it, and all the while secretly hoped that it would just happen and spare him the pain of not knowing when the blow would hit. Now it had, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Nix was still talking. “—cannot really say, though if I had to bet—”

Dick put the glass down on the nightstand. “Why are you doing this?”

Nix blinked like he didn’t understand the question, and at this point it was one of the two: either Nix had developed a taste for torturing him, or he was so far gone that he truly didn’t understand.

“What do you want, Nix?”

“I told you, just answer the question, it’s an easy—”

“Stop it.”

For a moment they simply stared at each other, Dick holding the shirt in his fist like a rag, Nix looking like a naughty schoolboy who’d been scolded by the headmaster.

Eventually the spell broke and Nix spoke again, his voice a low rumble. “How long?”

Dick looked away.

“How _fucking_ long?”

“A few months.”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“Stop swearing,” Dick said irritably.

“Sure, that’s the problem here, me calling the name of Our Lord in vain, not you—you—” He didn’t seem to be able to articulate in words what it was exactly that Dick had been doing. “And you sitting in church every Sunday like a goddamn choir boy, you—sanctimonious prick.”

Dick swallowed. This one had landed too close to home, but then again even from the bottom of a bottle Nix would know how to make it hurt.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

Nix stumbled on his feet. “Like what?” he asked.

“Drunk.”

“Good point,” he groaned, rubbing his face. “I need another one.”

He steadied himself with a hand on the bedside table and trudged over to the door. He inadvertently kicked the bottle, sending it rolling in Dick’s direction, and would’ve tripped on it if Dick hadn’t reached and grabbed him by the arm.

“Get your hands off me,” Nix growled, but Dick refused to let go.

“Enough drinking,” he said, holding him firmly by the elbow.

“Or what?”

Normally he could have distracted him or persuaded or even guilted him into giving it up for the night, but this time he had no levers, nothing better to offer and no threat that would work on him. He let go.

Nix looked up at him like a train halted on its tracks, wheels still fuming. “You explain it to me,” he said darkly.

“What?” Dick sighed. “What am I explaining?”

“You’re not like that. You’re not some—some—”

“Nix—”

“I know you.” Nix put his hands on Dick’s shoulders. He sounded pleading all of a sudden. “All right? If you just let me take you to places sometime, to meet—Stop making that face, goddamnit, I’m serious—to meet a girl, get fuckin’ _laid_ for once—”

“Nix.”

“—and enough with this virginity bullshit. Mm? See what good it did you anyway. We can go out. What’s the time? We can go out now and I swear, in no time you’ll be—”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

There had been girls in his neighborhood, at school, at church, sisters of sports mates, daughters of family friends: some pretty, some shy, some bolder than he’d be in a lifetime. With them he would play the full script: take them to the movies, hold their hand, walk them home, and in the end he would hold them in his arms and brace himself to collect his goodnight kiss, soldiering through it till it was over.

“It does. Trust me. Works like a charm.”

“And how has it worked for you?” Dick snapped.

He took a step back, Nix’s hands dropping limp from his arms. He felt awfully tired, his upper body cold and stiff, his leg muscles twitching with exhaustion, but he couldn’t imagine sleeping in his bed right now. He put his shirt back on almost violently and reached for the jacket he had folded away on the chair.

“Don’t bother if you’re just gonna take them off again,” Nix said.

It took a few seconds for the implication to land, the magnitude of Nix’s disgust shocking in itself, let aside the narrative behind it. Dick stopped dead on his feet, throat suddenly tight.

“Yep,” Nix continued, answering an imaginary question. “Saw him walk past earlier. I think George’s in too, but you could give it a go. Who knows, maybe he’s into it too.” He lit a cigarette and lay himself down with a sigh, one arm stretched lazily over the side of the bed and the other folded over his eyes.

Dick pressed his lips together, waiting for the lump in his throat to soften before he felt confident speaking again. His voice sounded like someone else’s. “That what you think of me?”

Nix answered from under the shadow of his arm. “A cock is a cock is a cock, right?”

Dick walked out. He thought that maybe this was what Nix had felt like after their one kiss: this terrible impotent fury, this overpowering sense of frustration. No wonder he had stormed out. No wonder he had come back to call it quits.

He couldn’t sleep in his own bed, and of course he couldn’t go to Wally’s ( _Never to the same place twice, never coming or leaving together, and never, ever at camp_ ). In the barracks there were plenty of empty beds, but the men would talk. The officers’ club was already closed, and regardless, he wouldn’t let himself be seen sleeping on an armchair like a homeless vagrant. There were no options, really. He walked out of the housing area, crossed the training field and sneaked into the gym.Good thing it was never locked as it contained nothing especially of value.

It was almost zero-two-hundred. He dragged himself over to one of the big mattresses that lined the long sides of the room and sat down on it with his back against the wall. No matter how tired he felt, he knew his brain wouldn’t let him sleep until much longer than his usual wake-up time, if any at all, and the gym was rarely used on Sundays.

He bent his legs up, let his head fall on his folded arms and finally closed his eyes.

  


As he expected, shortly before zero-five-hundred he woke up unaided. As a courtesy to his own body, he gave himself some time to stretch his limbs and his tortured back, which felt so bad he probably wouldn’t be able to touch his toes anymore. When he was confident that he had recovered the ability to stand and walk up straight, he left through the showers and from there walked back all the way to the officers’ sleeping quarters.

Sneaking back into his room felt like he was indeed returning from something illicit, which was unpleasant, worse than returning to camp after meeting up with Wally had ever been. At least no one saw him. His uniform was a crumpled mess and his hair had rejected any attempts to settle after combing it back with his fingers.

The hut smelled stuffy and pretty much like its inhabitants had smoked two whole packs of cigarettes and downed a bottle of whiskey in it. Although not particularly nice, the odor was familiar and it didn’t bother Dick at all, no more than cabbage smell did back at home.

Nix was fast asleep, his body wrapped around his pillow which peeked out from under the bedsheets like another person. Dick looked away. He’d have to do something about it, he thought as he picked up his clean PT gear from his footlocker. Probably ask for a different housing assignment. The thought made him feel like a pit had opened where his stomach normally was.

Even Dick didn’t like running that early on a Sunday, especially in January, especially two hours before sunrise, especially when the temperature had dropped below zero. There was a point in endurance sports where it stopped being a physical activity and it became a form of penance, and running that morning felt just about past that point. So he went.

After waking up properly, he wasn’t feeling too tired. He knew he’d pay for it later, but as he started jogging he felt perfectly awake, even energetic. The airfield was covered in a thin layer of frost that creaked softly under his boots, and the flagpole was completely caked in a thick white crust. On his third run around he stopped and crouched under it until it got too cold. The physical exertion hadn’t brought any clarity of mind, just a marginally comforting numbness, but perhaps all he needed to do was go on until his mind gave up some dead weight. He got up and decided to go for another round, and by the time he was back at the gym he actually felt a little better.

The hot shower was the best part. He groaned with relief when he stepped under the steaming spray, and for a long time he just stood there, letting himself be washed, his eyes closed under the stream and his thoughts thawing out from the ice box where the cold had placed them. Warming up, his treacherous brain supplied a revised memory of his Saturday night, and he resisted for a while but eventually took himself in hand. It was a brief affair, the false memory more effective than any real ones he’d ever had, a fact he distantly felt he should be ashamed of. When he was done he showered quickly, shaved and changed into a clean uniform.

Wally was already sitting in the mess hall when he arrived; their eyes met from across the room. For a split second he considered sitting somewhere else, but the thought made him feel ashamed and so he joined in. Matheson was sitting next to Wally, looking positively sick.

“Dick, you look like shit,” Matheson said happily. He himself had deep black circles under his eyes. “You sleep at all last night?”

Dick threw a glance at the door; Nix was nowhere to be seen. “No. Not really.”

“Don’t tell me our baby eagle has finally spread his wings and got his first hangover,” the other replied, elbow propped on the table, head resting on his hand.

“Something like that,” Dick answered, eyeing Wally from across the table.

“Really?”

“No, Matt.”

Dick wasn’t particularly hungry, but you had to refuel after exercising, so he swallowed his eggs and toast like he would medicine, without tasting it. Matheson had it worse: he was looking at his food like it were a plate of crawling roaches.

“Feeling okay?” Dick asked, vaguely amused.

“Like I got the 2nd Armored marching on my head, thank you.” He dropped the fork. “You should see Hester, I think he’s in a coma.”

Dick wiped his mouth and folded his napkin carefully. “You went to town?”

“Nah. We stayed in, the three of us.”

“Nix too?”

“Yeah. Damn the man,” Matheson groaned, rubbing his face. “He can drink us all under the table.”

Dick got up and excused himself, ignoring Wally’s look as he walked away. It didn’t bother him so much that Nix had lied about seeing him in Columbus, but he had assumed that Wally and he had been careless this one time and they’d been found out because of it. Now it seemed like Nix had known for some time—maybe he’d had an inkling already on Thanksgiving, that time when he’d asked Dick who the girl was that he was seeing. Maybe he’d only said “girl’ because he couldn’t bring himself to spell out the full extent of his suspicions, distasteful as they were.

At zero-eight-hundred he went to the Sunday service, feeling for the first time in years like he wasn’t supposed to be there. He had squared things with God a long time ago, and though he’d never felt like he had acquired a free pass to do as he pleased with his fellow men, it was enough to let him hang quietly onto his faith despite it all. But today he was eighteen again, and the little peace of mind he’d conquered for himself was gone, evaporated after three careless words from Lewis Nixon. He was left sitting there, alone, asking for forgiveness but ultimately unsure what he wanted to be forgiven for.

He left the chapel an hour later. The temperature had risen nicely while he was inside, and the sky was blue and bright. He covered his eyes to shield them from the sunlight, and that’s when he saw Nix stand a few steps away from the doors. He was wearing his Ray-Bans low on the bridge of his nose, hands deep in his pockets and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

Dick saw no point in pretending he hadn’t seen him, so he walked straight ahead.

“Hey,” Nix said, voice a little rough.

“Hey.”

Nix’s eyes moved above the line of his sunglasses, then made their way slowly up to Dick’s face. “Can we talk?”

“We can.”

He followed Nix, and after a few steps it was clear that they were not heading back to the sleeping quarters but somewhere towards the mess hall. Nix led him to a spot behind the kitchen and gestured at a trio of overturned crates that the cooks must have left after their break. Breakfast time was over and it was still early for lunch, so the place was nice and quiet. A little mound of cigarettes butts had been left in the middle for someone else to clean.

Nix cleared his throat, sniffed once. “So, uhm, about last night. I was a proper asshole. I mean, I was wasted, but that’s not—I’m not looking for excuses. It was not right, what I did. The things I said. I’m sorry.”

Dick nodded, looking at his hands. “All right.”

“All right?”

“Yes. Apology accepted.” He looked up, but Nix’s eyes were invisible behind his dark lenses. “That it?” he asked, rubbing his hands on his thighs, half ready to get up again.

“No, that’s—Stay a moment.” Nix killed his cigarette on top of the pile, pressing it down with uncharacteristic care. “I’m trying, okay? I want to understand. But this is all new to me, this—thing. I could use a little help.”

Dick bit the inside of his cheek and resumed his position with his elbows on his knees. “Go on.”

Nix lit himself a second cigarette, as if he needed a little break to gather his thoughts. Smoke came out of his nose in little interrupted puffs. “I thought we were the same. Because I’ve never—I mean, ladies are ladies, and I don’t—want. Other men.”

It took Dick a moment for Nix’s words to sink in, and when they did he was flooded with tenderness. He locked his hands together, one thumb pressing on top of the other, to stop them from moving. “You gotta know by now that I’m not like that,” he said.

“All right. All right,” Nix repeated, cigarette smoking itself between his loose fingers. “But with _me_. You want—”

“Yes.”

After this they were both still and silent for a while, eyes fixed on the little mound of cigarette butts like the saddest pair of campers in front of the saddest campfire.

“And with him. It’s the same.”

“What do you mean, the same?”

“I mean, it’s the same thing. That’s what you want.”

Dick scratched his index finger with the opposite thumb, hands still clasped together. He wasn’t sure how much he was willing or even able to put down in words. He didn’t even know if Nix was intentionally misunderstanding, because sometimes he did, mainly to win an argument. But there was no argument here, and absolutely nothing to win.

“It’s not the same,” he said at last. “You should know that.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. It doesn’t work like that. There are things—” He sighed. “I want them, and I can’t have them, and I can’t sleep my way out of wanting them.”

Nix winced as if the thought, now that Dick had spelled it out, was suddenly painful. “That what you’ve been doing?”

“Yes,” he answered honestly.

“Why? If it doesn’t work?”

“Because—” Dick opened his hands. “It feels good. Something’s got to.”

Nix sighed, looking at what was left of his cigarette. He brought it up to his lips, took a final drag and discarded the butt into the pile. Hands now empty, he got more restless. He rubbed the heel of his left hand on his knee, adjusted the glasses on his nose, kicked a cigarette butt that had rolled off the pile back to the middle.

“When we were in Atlanta the first time,” he said, “after getting our jump wings. We danced with those girls, remember?”

“I remember.”

“And the redhead, she saw me look at you. I don’t think I was doing anything funny, but she laughed and looked and she asked if you were my— _lover_.” He sounded disbelieving. “Like she expected me to, I don’t know. Borrow her lipstick or something.”

Dick ignored the insulting implication, filed it away in the list of things he’d have to explain to Nix one day. “What does it matter what she thought?”

“What are you talking about? I can’t have people go around thinking that I—that we—”

“That you’re like me?”

Nix fell silent.

“Nix, it’s all right,” Dick said, more gently. “It was just a girl.”

“I don’t know,” Nix murmured. He sounded so stricken that Dick felt for him. He wanted to hold his hand, but they were in plain sight on both sides. And maybe that was why Nix had chosen that place rather than a room with a door, to be sure nothing could happen. So in the end he settled for his forearm, squeezing it gently through the jacket.

“If it’s any consolation, I think you’d look terrible with lipstick on,” he said softly.

Nix chuckled humorlessly. “Yes, thank you, Dick. That consoles me all right.” He patted Dick’s hand, then covered it with his own. His palm was warm and dry on Dick’s cold fingers.

“Lew,” Dick called gently, leaning forward.

“Don’t.” Nix dropped his hand. There was a tense streak to his voice that was entirely new.

“That’s fine,” Dick said calmly.

Nix shook his head, as if to say, _Of course you’d say that_. “Is it,” he muttered, with a bitter edge to his voice. Dick couldn’t tell whom the bitterness was for, but he suspected it was directed inwards.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” Nix took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of tired, swollen eyes circled by dark half-moons. He rubbed his right eye socket with the heel of his hand. “To get a grip, I guess. To make up my goddamn mind, or—just let you be.” He looked up. “I will if you ask me to.”

Dick’s throat felt tight. He knew full well that he was a terrible friend, because every time Nix came to him begging for a way out he denied him. But he couldn’t, simply couldn’t force himself to steer their friendship any other way than in the one direction his heart desired. He’d rather keep them both stuck in this limbo where neither was happy than just say a word and call it quits.

“No.”

Nix nodded, as if that was the answer he had expected. “So, what happens now?”

“Nothing happens,” Dick said. “We go on with our lives. We go to war. We come back, you go home and I buy myself a farm. We write letters. We meet at Army reunions.”

“And that’s it,” Nix murmured, looking into the campfire that wasn’t a campfire, just a little pile of waste.

“Yeah, Nix, that’s it,” Dick sighed. “And it’ll be all right.”


	6. Chapter 6

**_Late February 1943, on a Southern Railway train_ **

 

Dick had been, as usual, the first to arrive. At seventeen-thirty the dining car was still empty, and an anxious waiter had immediately come to remind the Lieutenant that dinner service started at six o'clock. He had asked Dick if he would have a drink in the meantime. Dick had ordered coffee and relaxed on the seat with his read.

It was a field manual Nix had left lying around in their quarters and Dick had picked up on his final round before leaving Fort Benning. (Nix, untidy as a rule, could be downright sloppy on a Monday.) It was a rather arid, hundred-and-forty-page-long endeavor by the title of _Military Intelligence: Identification of German Aircraft_ , which even Dick found a little heavy on the stomach for an evening read.

He browsed lazily through the pictures of German planes while the other officers started pouring in. Sobel passed him by with barely a nod, Bill Evans tagging along, and the two of them went to sit at a free table on the far end of the wagon. A few Lieutenants from F and D Company trickled down in couples and triplets. Battalion headquarters (Strayer, Horton, Hester, Matheson, Lavenson) marched down the aisle in rank order as if passing in review in front of General Taylor.

Soon the car was almost full and Nix still nowhere to be seen. They had boarded the train together, found the sleeper car they’d been assigned to and occupied their berths, and then he’d left Dick with a vague mumbling about a footlocker and a request to save him a seat.

Now Dick’s duffel bag occupied the place on his left, on the aisle side—Nix didn’t like a window seat—and a dark, rainy Georgia rolled away outside the window. He gave up on reading almost right away, too distracted by the rising chatter around him to fully appreciate the intricacies of German aircraft identification.

“Excuse me, are these taken?”

Dick looked up to the man standing by his table, a thumb pointing questioningly at the two empty seats. The first thing he noticed was, necessarily, the single silver bar on his collar that marked him as a 1st Lieutenant. The second, that he was exceedingly handsome—the kind of intimidating beauty that would give pause even to the most absent-minded observer. He had arresting blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones that looked both soft and masculine.

“They’re not. Please,” Dick said.

The man thanked him and took the aisle seat. He took off his cap, uncovering shiny, neatly combed chestnut hair, and threw a glance down the corridor in the direction he had come from, then to the other end. He looked at Dick, and smiled.

“I know you, don’t I? Winters? From Easy?”

Dick nodded. “That’s me.”

The guy stretched out his hand over the coffee pot. “Gordon Rothwell, D Company.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dick replied politely. The name rang only the faintest bell.

Rothwell leaned back against his seat, his hands on the table with fingers interlaced. He looked like a Greek statue, if the Greeks had ever conceived one with a resting smiling face.

“You’re the Lieutenant who won the Junior Olympics, right? Back in Toccoa.”

“I did,” Dick acknowledged. It felt like years past, though it had been a mere six months. “It was a nice competition.”

“Nice?” the guy repeated, amusedly. “I thought it was hell. That obstacle course? Damn.”

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Dick smiled.

“Yeah, well, you’d say that. We had Speirs—you know Ron Speirs?” Dick nodded. “He put up a fight. But we always knew that Easy would get it.”

A waiter came round to pass the menus and asked Rothwell if he would like to order a drink, but he declined. He threw another look to both ends of the aisle.

“I saw you that day,” Rothwell continued, leaning a little on his elbows over the table. “You passed me at Currahee. You and Wally Moore and Joe Reed from Charlie—you just breezed past like a locomotive. Crazy fast.”

There was a certain boyish charm to the guy, though he couldn’t be more than a year or two younger than Dick himself. It was a quality he liked in the men under his command; not so much in those he would meet for entirely different reasons. God knew why he was more driven to men of the brooding, dark, self-deprecating sort.

“Actually, I wasn’t too smart,” Dick commented, vaguely bashful under the other’s bright blue gaze. “I pushed too hard and my legs cramped on the way down. Wally got it in the end.”

“That’s right, he did,” Rothwell said, glancing over Dick’s shoulder. “Speaking of, have you—”

“Honey, I’m back!” a voice singsonged. “Did you miss me?”

Dick turned his head up. Nix had an air of adventure about him, like he’d done something or been somewhere he really shouldn’t have.

“Not really,” Dick said with a ghost of a smile. He looked at Rothwell, who was regarding Nix strangely. “Nix, do you know Lieutenant Rothwell, from Dog?”

“Can’t say that I do. Lewis Nixon, how’re you doing,” Nix said, shaking the man’s hand.

He sat down too close, in that casual way he had of always being too close, and Dick could feel the hard, smooth texture of the hip flask in Nix’s pocket press against his thigh. He wondered how Nix had managed to find his footlocker in a luggage car stacked up to the roof with identical trunks. Dick suspected he might have bribed a porter, or possibly someone already back at camp, to get a nice and easily reachable spot.

“That looks familiar,” Nix said, reaching out to check the booklet tucked in the slot between the table and the windowsill.

“I wanted something to read,” Dick shrugged.

“Jeez, what next? The Bible?”

“As a matter of fact, I do read the Bible quite often.”

“Only the boring parts, I’m sure. The territory allotments and the census records and the whatnots.”

“The genealogies,” Dick smiled thinly.

“The _genealogies_. God. Hadn’t heard the word since my grandfather hired a guy to write the family history.”

“Are you telling me that there’s a Nixon family history? In print?”

“No. Grandfather died halfway through and Father refused to pay.”

Nix’s smile shone like a freshly polished boot. It was one of the difficult ones, the kind that made Dick want to kiss him. But then he realized they’d gone off on a tangent and Rothwell was still sitting in front of them, ignored, trying to look like he wasn’t listening to their friendly banter. Nix noticed it all, the awkwardness and the other thing, and his eyes fell to Dick’s lips. He cleared his throat and looked decidedly away.

Rothwell squirmed on his seat like he wanted to leave, but was ultimately unsure if it was a good idea.

“Is your friend late?” Dick asked, to make a conversation.

“He’s coming. He went to check on the boys, see that they were settled and all.”

“ _Before_ dinner?” Nix interjected. “Even Mother Hen over here is not showing his face until he’s stuffed it with pie.”

“They are not kids, Nix,” Dick replied. “And they are your men too.”

“Yes, but they love Mommy more.”

“There he is,” Rothwell said, getting on his feet.

When he saw who the friend was, the tingling—a ghost of an idea—that had been nagging at the back of Dick’s mind immediately took shape. And when he saw the man put his hand on Rothwell’s arm, he was sure of it. He resisted with all his might the impulse to check on Nix’s face.

“Oh, hi, Dick. Nix,” Wally said. He looked around, probably considering taking his friend somewhere else, but the car was full. He glanced at Rothwell, who looked back with a carefully neutral—perhaps studied—expression. “Mind if we join you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dick said. Nix said nothing.

For a moment they all sat in perfect silence, looking anywhere but at each other. Dick stole a glance at Nix, only to find him looking at a fixed point in the middle of the aisle, one hand on the table and the other wrapped around his armrest with his elbow propped up in an uncomfortable angle. His fingers drummed the tabletop lightly.

“What are we eating? I’m starving,” Nix announced, opening his menu. A mostly one-sided conversation followed on the relative merits of the dining car menus of different train lines.

His discomfort was, to someone who knew him well, as glaring as a lit beacon. Wally almost smirked, though his amusement remained confined somewhere in the eye region. Dick didn’t find it too amusing.

He took his check sheet and quickly scribbled his pick (lamb chops and ice cream cake) under the marked-off coffee order.

“Are you ordering at all or are you happy dreaming of the Empire State Express _omelette créole_? Whatever that is.”

Nix shook his head and mumbled something about pearls and pigs, but dutifully filled in his check.

Meanwhile Wally’s and Rothwell’s orders were already sitting on the table, having been taken care of swiftly and with minimal fuss, and the waiter came a moment later to pick them all up. Nix had added a bottle of wine to his order, which Dick had to admit was a better sort of drinking than the solitary whisky in his flask, but still he hoped it was meant to be shared.

“So, Gordon. Gordon, is it?” Nix started, in a tone that made every single hair on Dick’s body stand up at attention, as uncharacteristically friendly as it was. “How do you know our Wally?”

“Drinking buddies,” Rothwell answered, easily.

“Aha. What’s your poison?”

“Beer. Scotch on a special day.”

Nix smiled. “Ain’t each day that God gives us a special day,” he said, sounding positively angelic.

Rothwell laughed. He even laughed handsomely, in a rich, smooth baritone. Nix rested his back against the seat, looking marginally pleased with himself.

The waiter came back with the drinks. Dick hadn’t ordered any, content with his coffee and his water, and Wally and Rothwell had ordered beers. Dick eyed Nix’s claret bottle with poorly hidden distaste.

“If you don’t want me to drink it all, you should give a hand,” Nix said, reading his mind. He waved his glass under Dick’s nose.

“No thanks,” Dick replied, instinctively pulling his head back.

When the food started to come in and the car filled with mixed, enticing smells, Dick realized that he was very hungry. Soon they were served and he dug happily into his lamb chops, taking a grateful first bite. For a moment he ignored his table mates, focusing on his food, and when he paid attention again he realized Rothwell and Wally were in the middle of an animated conversation.

“All I’m saying is, it’s a hell of a good idea,” Rothwell was saying, gesturing at Wally.

“Come on, Don. It’s suicide,” Wally replied.

“No, it’s not.”

“How? Enlighten me.”

Rothwell gestured with his knife. “You only drop a few sticks, say two or three, so it’s harder to take the planes down. And then it’s what? Twenty men. Thirty. They don’t even know you’re there.”

“You’re scattered all over the place,” Wally counted on his fingers, “surrounded, and the rest of the Army is on the other side of the ocean.”

“Sounds like basic paratrooping to me,” Nix commented, matter-of-factly, helping his food down with a sip of wine.

“My point exactly. Thank you,” Gordon said.

“It’s not _just_ paratrooping,” Wally retorted pointedly.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a new concept,” Rothwell said, clearly happy the question had been asked. “The Limeys invented it.”

“Go on?”

“They’re called pathfinders. They jump one or two hours ahead of everyone else to set up the radio transmitters to mark the DZ.”

“With no backup,” Wally added.

“But that’s the whole point,” Rothwell insisted.

“I’ve never heard of this. Where did you hear it?” Dick asked, his interest piqued.

“Buddy of mine from home. He was with the 509th, in England. He said that they have two pathfinder companies over there.”

“Not with the 509th, they don’t,” Dick frowned.

“No, no. I mean the Limeys. _We_ don’t,” Rothwell answered, in a tone that was a mix of professional disappointment and personal regret. “Yet,” he added.

“Oh gosh, save me a seat,” Nix smiled, wiping his mouth.

Rothwell shot him a genuinely puzzled look. “You wouldn’t apply, then?”

“No way,” Nix snorted. “It’s a shit job.”

“You said that about the paratroopers,” Dick commented casually, cutting through his last piece of meat.

“And I stand by it. Paratrooping _is_ a shit job. But this, this is shit squared.”

Rothwell shook his head. “It’s an elite corp. The best of the best.”

“I was promised we were that already,” Nix replied, throwing Dick a sideways glance.

“Well,” Dick said, “I never claimed you couldn’t do better.”

“I think that’s the very definition of ‘the best of the best’, Dick.”

Dick shrugged. “I don’t know. It does sound tough,” he conceded.

“It is,” Rothwell agreed. “They take only the toughest, craziest sons of bitches.”

Nix put down his knife and fork on one side of his plate. “Yeah, well. I’ve got enough hoops to jump already, thank you very much. I’m starting to feel like a circus animal,” he joked, eyes sparkling with his third glass of wine.

“You tell me you wouldn’t join? If you had the chance?” Rothwell asked, turning to Wally.

Wally seemed slightly embarrassed by the abrupt question, or maybe by the intensity of the stare. A pink halo formed around his neck. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Well, I would. Scratch that—I will. It’s just a matter of time before we get our own companies.”

“You don’t know that,” Wally said.

Rothwell smiled, irresistibly. It was the smile of someone who was enamoured with an ideal, and wouldn’t budge or let anyone tell him otherwise. It was a smile that could launch a thousand ships, or one paratrooper.

“You just wait and see.”

 

* * *

 

_I will apply._

_Dick, come on._

_I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I’ve run the idea by my parents._

_And…?_

_They think I’m crazy._

_Well, that makes three of us._

_I’m not._

_Look, if it’s the money, I can—_

_Nix._

_I mean it._

_It’s not the money. The money is nice, sure, but that’s not it._

_Then what is it?_

_Well..._

_Well?_

_The way I see it, chances are we’re gonna die._

_Yeah, all right._

_And if I’m dying, I wanna die in good company._

_And what’s that?_

_Someone I trust. Someone I respect._

_…_

_Someone I’d be willing to die_ for _._

_Jesus, you make it sound like you’re getting married._

_Honestly, I don’t see why it should be your concern._

_If you don’t see it, then you’re way more stupid than you look._

_…_

_I can’t make you change your mind, can I._

_No, you can’t._

_…_

_…_

_In good company, you said?_

_The best of the best._

 

* * *

 

The men were quartered in the coach car section of the train, between the sleeper cars reserved to the officers and the cargo wagons at the end. They had received somewhat meager lunch boxes and they would have to sleep on their seats, but they were comfortable enough, and in high spirits too. A change of scenery always boosted morale, and so did beer, as proven by the particularly spirited rendition of _Der Fuehrer’s Face_ that greeted Dick and Nix as they entered the car.

 

_When der fuehrer says we is de master race_

_We heil heil right in der fuehrer's face_

_Not to love der fuehrer is a great disgrace_

_So we heil heil right in der fuehrer's face_

 

At this point, Nix had had enough wine that he felt like joining in the singing, fake German accent and all, which the men absolutely loved. Dick didn’t sing, but he contributed for morale’s sake, humming a note or two. The song was catchy and very popular after the Donald Duck film had been shown a few nights in a row at Fort Benning.

“Take a seat, sir,” Lipton said to his left, half-standing already, but Dick declined.

Lipton stood anyway, leaning with his elbow on the headrest. In the car there was a jovial, school trip-like atmosphere that made Dick smile.

“Not singing, sir?” Lipton said.

Dick shook his head. “I know what I’m good at.” He eyed him. “You’re not singing either, Sergeant.”

“Oh, no,” Lipton smiled back. “Believe me, sir, nobody wants to hear that.”

They stood side by side for a while, listening to the next song and the next. Deeper into the car, blending effortlessly with the lead group—Martin, Toye, Powers—Nix sported red cheeks and sparkly eyes. A veil of perspiration glinted on his forehead under the roof lamp.

“Lieutenant Nixon is in a good mood,” Lip said.

Dick turned his head, struck by the unpleasant thought that ‘in a good mood’ might be a euphemism, a joke at Nix’s expense. But Lipton looked like he meant nothing more than what he’d said, and Dick nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted carefully. “He is.”

An hour and ten songs later, Nix’s mood was still holding strong, but the vocal cords were perhaps getting tired. He locked eyes with Dick and nodded towards the far end of the car, opposite of the one they’d come from.

Dick followed, quite unable to ask what the plan was over the singing that had resumed stronger than ever. Nix led him into the next coach car, which was equally full—though not as musically inclined—and through and into the next one, and through again. The last door he had to unlock with a big key he swiftly produced from his inner breast pocket.

They were in a dark car, and when the lock clicked behind his back Dick realized that it was a cargo wagon. Nix turned and grabbed a cord hanging next to the door, and a yellowish, trembling light shone above their heads. Footlockers were piled and secured in tall stacks on either side of the car, leaving just a narrow corridor in the middle.

“Nix, what are we doing here?”

“Refilling,” Nix answered, checking out the name tags on the trunks. He walked into the corridor, checking, searching, following the tags with his fingers.

“Thought you had already.”

“Too many people. I thought I’d bide my time.”

“And you need me here because…?”

“Well, it’s your footlocker, for one.” He turned, shooting Dick an unrepentant smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“What? Nix—”

“Relax, it’s just a bottle. One tiny bottle in a sea of Army manuals and regulation socks. Let’s see—Ah. Bingo!” He tapped the front of the footlocker right in front of his eyes, the top one of its stack. The tag read ‘R. D. Winters’. “Come over here.”

Dick crossed his arms, not moving, and Nix sighed and took on a gently exasperated expression. “Would you mind? Please?”

“Next time just do us both a favor and learn the combination,” Dick said, stepping forward to roll in the four digits. He took the lock from its hook, putting it in Nix’s hand, but Nix just slipped it into his pocket.

“Not fun,” he declared. “Pass me that stool, come on.”

Ten minutes later the flask had been refilled, the footlocker safely locked, and Dick found himself sitting on the floor next to Nix, back against the door, watching him take his first grateful sip—the second, if you counted the kiss he’d given the bottle before burying it under Dick’s underwear.

“We should go back,” Dick said, checking his watch.

“We’re on a train. Nobody cares.”

“That’s not—”

“Just a minute, okay? Just—” Nix closed his eyes, exhaling a long breath. “Let me enjoy it.” He raised the flask to his mouth, taking another small sip, barely enough to get his lips wet.

He turned his head, lids still half closed, breath smelling like whiskey and a faint smile on his glistening lips, and Dick braced himself.

The first time he’d seen Nix drunk, at OCS, he had been hit by a confusing pang of lust. He knew that he didn’t find drunkenness attractive, that it wasn't that, and he had spent days figuring it out. It had come to him a week later, when he had met Nix on his way back from a night in town, Dick himself heading out to his morning run. Nix had asked him for a cigarette, and Dick had thrown him a fresh pack, still unopened since the last round of distribution.

Nix’s mouth had curled into a soft, intoxicated smile, and his tongue had darted out to wet his lips before they closed around the filter. That was when Dick had noticed that Nix’s lips were red and puffed up and realized that that made him look like he’d spent the last two or three hours doing any sort of unspeakable things with his mouth.

And now, with the better part of a wine bottle and the extra whiskey in his stomach, Nix looked just like that: like his mouth had traveled all over someone's body.

“Hey, don't look at me like that,” Nix said softly.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a piece of steak.”

Dick looked away, embarrassed, gaze falling naturally on his hands. He wondered how many times Nix had noticed before.

“Do you think about it?” Nix asked, fingers playing idly with the cap of the flask, screwing and unscrewing it.

“Yeah.”

“Every day?”

Dick opened his hands, not quite knowing what to answer to that. Was it every day? Was it every night before falling asleep? Every time he looked at Nix’s face?

“Because I do,” Nix said.

Dick looked up and met Nix’s eyes, which were soft and slightly unfocused, alcohol and a long day making his eyelids heavy.

“Lew,” he started, but never finished the sentence. Nix had leaned over, chin brushing Dick’s shoulder, nose a mere inch from Dick’s own.

“This is a bad idea, right?” Nix whispered, voice a little rough and deep in his throat.

“Yeah,” Dick confirmed—perhaps too quickly, because Nix made a face like Dick had kicked his shin. He pulled his head back, retreating, but Dick’s hand wrapped around his arm, squeezing it through the woolen jacket.

“Lew,” he said again, a little hard, and this time he was going to say it. “You've gotta make up your mind.”

Nix pulled back further, and Dick’s heart skipped as he thought that was it, that was the end, but Nix stopped just short of his chin losing contact with Dick’s shoulder. Slowly, so slowly Dick didn't even see it move at the periphery of his vision, Nix’s hand crawled up to rest on the side of his neck, fingers rough and gentle on his skin.

“You have no idea,” Nix said, “the things I wanna do.”

Dick suspected he did, or at least he _hoped_ he did, but even if the few options supplied by his admittedly limited imagination proved to be off the mark, he thought it wouldn't matter much. Whatever it was he would take it, take it all unreservedly and come back for more.

“I'm here,” he said, simply.

Nix’s hand locked around the back of Dick’s neck and his body leaned forward at such a slow, extenuating pace that Dick thought it wasn’t moving at all, and Nix’s searching gaze oscillating from his eyes to his lips simply meant that he wasn't sure.

But then the moment of indecision passed: Nix’s motion accelerated, his mouth covered Dick’s and his shoulder rotated as his whole body twisted to get closer, to lean, to hang, to wrap itself around Dick’s own. A leg dragged on top and over Dick’s knee, and Nix’s tongue pushed into his mouth, taking possession of everything. Something clanged somewhere, metal against the floor, soon forgotten.

He opened his eyes, pulling back from the kiss just enough to get a good look of Nix’s face. He saw him bite his lip and drop his gaze, suddenly the most bashful Dick had ever seen him.

“You’re going to ruin your trousers,” Dick said, touching Nix’s leg, though what he really meant was, _Everybody is going to know the moment we walk out of here_ , and it was a testimony to years of vigilance and self-restraint that he could think with a level head even with Nix hot and hard in his arms.

The other man laughed nervously. “That all you got to say? That I’m gonna ruin my trousers?”

Dick ran his hands through Nix’s hair, on his shoulders, fixing the knot of his tie, smoothing invisible creases on his shirt. “I have a couple more things on my mind.” He leaned in for another kiss, short and warm. “Though you have to admit, it _is_ a perfectly good pair of trousers,” he whispered against Nix’s lips.

Nix relaxed; Dick could feel his body release some of its tension under his hands. “Well, what now?” Nix asked after a while.

“Now we go back before they come looking for us.” He squeezed Nix’s arm, gently motioning him to get up.

“For a fruit you’re quite the tease,” Nix complained, though he obeyed. An affectionate smile grew on his face. “Thought you lot were supposed to be easy.”

“Come look me up when there isn’t a whole regiment on the other side of the door.”

“Thank God we’re not moving into an Army camp.”

Dick got on his feet. Before standing up, he collected Nix’s flask from the floor and thrusted it into his hand. Nix took a step forward, his body flush with Dick’s own, arm rising to hang lazily around the other’s shoulders.

“Let’s sleep on it, okay?” Dick said.

“You think I’m gonna change my mind?”

“I don’t think anything. Just—sleep on it. We’ll talk,” he promised.

“ _Talk_ ,” Nix smiled, smug as ever, and Dick felt a crazy fluttering in his stomach. “Sure. We'll talk all right.”

 

* * *

 

“Dick. Hey. Wake up.”

Dick’s awakening brain registered the whiskey in Nix’s breath first; Nix’s hand on his chest second. Nix’s fingertips were touching his throat right above the collar of his undershirt, hot and slightly damp. He sweated when he drank too much; right now Dick could smell it faintly on him under the cologne and the whiskey breath.

“What is it?” he whispered, fully awake in a matter of seconds. The car was dark and bubbling with the sleeping noises of ten men.

“Get up,” Nix whispered back, firmly.

“Why? What’s—”

“Now.”

He obeyed, which probably said a lot about his Army conditioning, but not much about the shiver Nix’s voice sent creeping up his back.

Nix stood by his bed until Dick got on his feet, then walked towards the end of the car. He was wearing the same regulation undershirt and pyjama pants they all did, and thick woolen socks that made no noise as he padded through the aisle. He guided Dick to the restroom cubicle and turned to let him in, but Dick hesitated.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Nix reached out and pulled him inside. If Dick had wanted to stop him, Nix wouldn’t have been able to force him, but Dick didn’t resist. Nix got him inside and locked the latch behind Dick’s back.

The cubicle was so small that two men could barely stand in front of each other like that and have their bodies not touch. On Dick’s right side was the toilet, and behind Nix’s back a small sink, and that was it.

“Let’s talk,” Nix said, grinning, and Dick almost laughed in his face, because this was a little too much even for Nix, and what kind of conversation could they have in a place like that? But Nix pressed him against the door and put up both elbows on either side of Dick’s face, fists clenched above his head. Dick bit his lower lip, because Nix was hard, and his erection was now nested firmly between Dick’s legs.

“Lew—”

Nix smiled deviously. His right thumb touched the spot on Dick’s lip where his teeth had pressed a little too hard. “Yes?”

“I can’t—You—” He closed his eyes, opened them again a moment later. Nix was still smiling. “This is a bad idea.”

“I thought we’d ascertained that already,” Nix replied.

“I mean this. Here.” Dick sighed as Nix pressed harder into him. “You’re driving me insane.”

“Sounds fun. Let’s have more of that.”

“I mean it. We can’t.”

Nix’s thumb traced his cheekbone, brushing the tender sliver of skin where the beard wouldn’t grow. It was slow and sweet and intimate, and something immediately started to melt and burn inside Dick like hot wax.

“I had this dream,” Nix murmured. “I—Dick, I swear to God, I’ve never been so turned on in my life.”

Dick swallowed, suppressing the nearly overwhelming urge to ask all about the dream, and what Nix meant to do about it. “We have to be careful,” he said instead.

Nix let out a small defeated sigh and dropped his forehead on Dick’s shoulder. His shoulders bent forward and his mid-section moved away from Dick’s, leaving an empty spot between their bodies.

“You want me to beg?” Nix murmured, turning his face so that he was speaking right into Dick’s ear. “I’m not too proud for that.”

Dick pushed Nix’s head back upright with a gentle hand. He looked at him. Part of him knew that it would always be like this with him, the constant feeling of being on edge, missing the earth below his feet. Perhaps he’d touch the ground safe and sound this time, both legs intact, but there would be another jump and another and another, and he would never know which jump would be the one to break his neck.

Then again, his mother had seen right through him with the whole paratrooper thing: forget the money, forget the glory, forget being with the best of the best. Deep down, he had a reckless streak.

He kissed him. In his mind it wasn’t going to be a grand moment, just a brief, uncomplicated little thing before sending him back to sleep. Nix’s lips were dry as paper, and he placed a little kiss there and made to pull back. But Nix followed, and his whole body followed with him, and Dick found himself pinned hard against the door. Nix’s right hand moved to cup the back of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw in a gentle but possessive grip. Nix’s mouth opened a little, and when Dick followed suit Nix’s tongue invaded him, sweet and sour.

“Fuck, I want—” Nix breathed, tugging at Dick’s pyjama pants.

Dick rested his head back against the door, cheeks flushed. He took Nix’s hand, unhooking a finger from his waistband, and he must’ve been feeling a little sappy at this point, because he brought Nix’s hand up to his lips to kiss it. “No,” he murmured on the palm.

“What, really?”

“Afraid so.”

Dick was kissing the calloused underside of his fingers now, one by one, for no other reason than he wanted to know what they felt like under his lips, and Nix’s eyes followed the operation with interest. He smiled a little frustratedly. “So I sweet talked you for nothing?”

“It wasn’t all that sweet.”

“Bullshit. I saw tears in those baby blues.”

Dick smiled, pulling him close for another kiss, which in mere seconds turned open-mouthed and breathless. Nix’s hand dropped again, but it didn’t move further down than his hip. Dick felt the rough pads of his fingers dig under the hem of his shirt and scratch his skin.

“All right—all right,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. He was feeling euphoric, and that was exactly the feeling he had learned to watch out against. “I’ll go first. You—”

Three knocks vibrated through the thin door panel and through Dick’s body like rifle shots.

He looked at Nix, and Nix’s eyes stared back at him, suddenly very wide. If Dick had had a habit of cursing, he would have cursed now.

“Fuck,” Nix mouthed in his stead. “Fuck.”

Dick looked around, thinking fast. Behind his back, a second series of knocks—more urgent now—shook the door.

“Just a minute,” he said aloud, and then under his breath, to Nix: “You’re sick. You’re drunk and you’re sick.”

“What? No,” Nix protested.

Dick went to the toilet and opened the lid. “Nix,” he called.

“I don’t get sick from drinking, I’m not a goddamn teen,” Nix hissed. “And besides, how do you—I’ve never—”

“Come here,” Dick whispered, putting a heavy hand on the back of Nix’s neck and pulling him closer to the toilet. “Open your mouth.”

“Damn it—”

Dick pressed on his lip with a thumb, and Nix reflexively opened his mouth a little, and a little more when Dick touched his thumb to Nix’s front teeth. Dick held the back of Nix’s neck fast and in a swift, merciless motion he thrusted his index and middle fingers all the way to Nix’s throat. The reaction was immediate. Nix retched loudly and Dick had just enough time to pull his hand back and steer Nix towards the toilet before his dinner came up and out of his mouth.

He let go of him, and Nix steadied himself against the wall as he threw up, coughing and spitting.

Dick opened the door a notch. Luckily it was just Ray Schmitz from 1st Platoon, and not a senior officer from headquarters.

“Oh. Uh,” Schmitz said, peeking in to see Nix bent over the toilet. “Is he all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dick said. “Stomach bug.” He threw a glance over his shoulder. “He needed a hand,” he explained flatly. “You know.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Schmitz looked more embarrassed to have witnessed the scene than Nix probably was to be playing the leading role. “I’ll go—I’ll find another one.”

Dick nodded and closed the door, heart thumping violently in his throat. Next to him, Nix spat and flushed.

“You all right?” Dick murmured, touching his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Nix answered, clearing his throat. He went to the sink to rinse his mouth. “Who was that?”

“Schmitz.”

“Big mouth.”

“He’s a drunk. Won’t tell.”

Nix turned around, water dripping from his chin. He looked pale under the electric light; tiny droplets of water shone messily on his stubble.

“You look very calm,” he said dryly.

He was not. Anxiety ran fast through his veins, but what good would it do to mention it now? “It’s under control,” he promised. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

In truth, Nix looked more shocked than concerned. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, and let out a heavy sigh. Dick wanted to touch him, comfort him somehow and in doing so also comfort himself, but when he reached out Nix squirmed uncomfortably.

“You go first,” he said, and Dick simply nodded and left.

When they woke up the next day, Nix looked like nothing had happened, and it said something about how deeply Dick was blinded by him that he let himself believe they were okay.

They chatted while they packed their things and again at breakfast, and Nix was his usual morning self—that is, a slightly grumpier, more nihilistic version of himself.

By zero-nine-hundred they were settling down in their double hut in Camp Mackall. The arrangement was more than decent—much neater than Toccoa, and more private than the shared barracks at Benning—and Dick let relief wash over him when Nix closed the door and walked over to his bed to unpack his bag.

Then he took one look at the set of Nix’s shoulders and knew at once that there would be bad news.

“Nix?”

“Mm?”

He rested a hand on Nix’s arm, and Nix went stiff like a pillar of salt.

“You alright?” Dick asked, taking his hand off.

“Yep. Sure.”

Dick sighed. “Look, about yesterday—”

“About yesterday,” Nix said pointedly, interrupting. “I guess it didn’t escape your keen eye that I’d had a few too many.”

Dick didn’t say anything.

“So, yeah. Points for being a gentleman and all. Because I—Frankly, I got no fucking clue what came over me.” He chuckled, dryly. “Been a while, I guess. Though it wouldn’t be the first time I got wasted and woke up in the wrong bed.”

Nix stopped talking, and silence thickened like syrup around Dick’s ears. He walked back to his own bed, pulling things out of his bag one by one, without a method, without a plan, and when there was nothing left he looked at all his stuff spread everywhere and realized that he had no clue where to start to put it in order. It all looked like a sorry mess.

“All right then,” Nix said after a while. “I’ll go take a walk. Do a little recon.”

Dick didn’t answer to that either. Once Nix was gone, he felt his mind slip out of focus for a whole minute, eyes looking at things without really seeing them.

He forced himself to snap out of it and go on with his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the Donald Duck movie _Der Fuehrer's Face_ , you should! It's funny for all the wrong reasons. You can find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bn20oXFrxxg&t=73s).


	7. Chapter 7

**_29 April 1943, Camp Mackall_ **

 

“You gotta be kidding me,” Nix groaned, sticking out a hand to feel the first drops fall.

It was raining again, and this time it felt like a betrayal. It had been raining for most of the time at Camp Mackall, but on that particular day there had been no clouds in sight, just a few passing shadows at dusk, when Captain Sobel had given the platoon leaders their position and their orders. While the sun set above their heads, the sky had still been mostly clear. And now, three hours later, it was raining again.

“It makes you pray to ship out quick and see some action,” Dick muttered, equally frustrated.

“Maybe they’ll count it off as special training. Call it ‘South-Pacific acclimatization’ or something like that.”

“That where we’re gonna end up? In the Pacific?”

Nix smiled, his teeth very bright in the moonlight. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

They fell to the side to let the mortar squad pass them, as Dick wanted to keep an eye on the rear of the column. “Straight ahead,” he instructed. “Reconvene at the fork.” He realized that he was speaking in a hushed voice as if there were enemies ready to ambush them in Birkhead Mountains, North Carolina. Still, he didn’t stop; these exercises only made sense if there was some degree of realism to them.

“Look at you,” Nix said, leaning on his rifle. “If I didn’t know you, I’d say you look happy.”

“Good that you know me, then,” Dick replied, suppressing a smile. “Besides, you look pretty perky yourself. Rain notwithstanding.”

Nix scoffed. “A lovely stroll in nature in good weather and good company. What’s not to like?”

They resumed walking after the last man—Skip Muck—had passed them. Rain aside it was a beautiful night, and Dick wouldn’t necessarily admit it to Nix, but he _did_ like orienteering exercises, even more so when they were nocturnal. Something about walking in the dark was very soothing. And besides, he liked seeing Nix at his military best, working out the fastest route with a map and a compass or, like this time, by memory.

“And this being your specialty.”

“Huh,” Nix said, considering the thought. “Everybody can read a map.”

“Not _everybody_ ,” Dick replied, incapable of stopping the corner of his mouth from rising a fraction.

Nix chuckled. “Yeah, all right.”

They were silent for a while as the path grew narrower and crowded with slippery undergrowth and surfacing roots. Someone down the column swore loudly and Dick tensed for a moment, but nothing followed. Dick fixed his eyes on his feet, trudging on. As they penetrated deeper into the forest walking required more and more attention, but at least the canopies sheltered them from the rain.

A step behind him and on his right, as if on cue, he heard Nix’s boot slip with a swish on a wet stone. He reached out reflexively and grabbed his elbow, feeling Nix’s weight hang heavily from his hand and then relenting as he caught his balance.

“You got it?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Nix muttered. He straightened up, now steady on his feet, and if Dick kept holding his arm for one second too long before letting go, well, Nix would be none the worse for wear.

They turned on their flashlights and continued. Nix seemed uncharacteristically silent, which Dick attributed to the march, but silence persisted even after the trees opened up and the path turned into decently flat ground.

They regrouped a half mile later. On the left the track progressed into a gentle downward slope; on the right it got even narrower and steeper, so much so that they would have to walk in a single file to fit through.

Dick looked over at Nix, and Nix pointed wordlessly at the right path. None of the men protested—they were too well trained for that—but a couple of sighs reached Dick’s ears. He checked his watch.

“In an hour we’ll be at the bridge. We can stop for a break there,” he said. “Lieutenant Nixon, please.”

He nodded at Nix, who moved on to the head of the column, while Dick and the rest of the platoon followed. The road wasn’t too far, now: after a steep mile the path descended again and joined a comfortable cart road which led them straight to the river.

They arrived at the bridge a little after midnight and Dick announced a much welcome twenty-minute break. They’d been walking for almost four hours straight without pause and they’d need to put in another four if they wanted to reach the Badin Lake before dawn, as was their assignment. Still, it wasn’t a fraction of their march to Atlanta, and not much at all compared to some of the field exercises they’d taken since. Anything that required good feet and stamina was right up their alley.

The bridge was an old wooden construction that looked like it might collapse if ten men stepped on it at the same time. They settled down a little off the road, to find some cover under the trees. Some of the men took advantage of the break and pulled a snack out of their K-rations.

“Now that’s not the worst idea,” Nix mumbled, extracting his Hershey bar from his kit. He broke it in two, took a piece and handed Dick the rest.

“You know, somehow I thought you’d be fussier with food,” Dick declared, putting a piece of chocolate in his mouth.

“Fussy?”

“Yeah. Difficult.”

“I know what fussy means. What gave you the idea?”

“I don’t know. All those restaurant names you used to drop. All the French dishes. Two weeks into OCS, and I wondered if your mother had ever cooked you a dish with an English name.”

“Well, you weren’t too far off the mark. Mother’s never cooked in her whole life. We had a cook.”

Dick smiled. “French?”

“Irish.”

“Well, that explains the unfussiness.”

“She was good. She still works for my parents. For Father, at least.” He raised a finger. “Tell you what, I’ll take you home one of these days. You’ll see for yourself.”

Dick nodded noncommittally. Nix had a habit of throwing these open invites, but he never followed up on any of them. His father’s home was a recurring one. Dick couldn’t tell if Nix was genuinely homesick and wanted to share his nostalgia or sometimes just couldn’t stomach the thought of going back alone.

“We had a French nanny, though. Céleste.” Nix sucked some residual chocolate off his fingers. “Huge boobs. _Magnifique_ ,” he added, smacking his lips.

“Either you were too young for that or you had a nanny well in your teens,” Dick dismissed him, trying very hard not to let the smile reach his lips.

“And that’s where you’re terribly wrong, my friend.” Nix leaned forward. The chocolate smear at the corner of his mouth made him look so much younger, stubble notwithstanding. Dick deliberately focused on his eyes. “You forgot my baby sister. Five years my junior, God bless her.”

“That’s right, I had forgotten,” Dick admitted, which he had, mainly because Nix never mentioned her. “How is she, by the way?”

“Ah, she’s fine, I guess. Still unattached last I checked, in case you’re interested.”

Dick found that he didn’t care for the joke as much as he had ten months before. Now it made him feel queasy, like spoiled milk.

“That’s okay,” he said flatly, and Nix looked away.

Dick checked his watch. They were a little ahead of schedule and he wanted to keep it that way. He was going to stand up and tell the men they’d leave in five minutes when a distant rumble of footsteps caught his ear. They all looked to the other side of the bridge to see 3rd Platoon gather in front of the platform, then cross over. Dick noted that the bridge was sturdier than it looked.

“Hey, Dick. Nix,” Wally Moore said, walking up to them with Lipton trailing one step behind. He flashed them a frustrated smile. “I guess one of the platoons went out of their way.”

“Guess which one,” Nix replied. “Where are you headed?”

“To the lake, same as you,” Wally answered, “but first we got to collect our ammo. There’s a shed at the confluence of the Uhwarrie River and Duncombe Creek. We should’ve been there by now.”

Nix frowned. “Yeah, you’re off by a couple miles. You should go back and continue until you see the shed on your right. Or you can get off the road and follow the creek southward, but the path is probably shit.”

“We were just on the road, we must’ve missed it. I guess you were right, Lip,” Wally muttered, checking his watch. “Couple miles, you said?”

“Make it two and a half.”

“All right. Thanks. Back on your feet, boys, we’re moving out,” he called to his men. He made a curt goodbye gesture to both of them and then the platoon disappeared once more over the bridge.

They got up and resumed marching in the opposite direction. It wasn’t raining anymore, which was especially good news since they’d be on open road for most of the walk now.

Dick had a lingering feeling of uneasiness, as he did most times Nix and Wally interacted in his presence.

He and Wally had met a grand total of one time after the disastrous night in Columbus, and on the following Sunday morning Dick had come back from his pass and crossed paths with Nix, who looked like he had not even bothered trying to get to bed. They had sat across from each other at breakfast for half an hour, in complete silence, neither of them able to raise their eyes.

“Plans for the weekend?” Nix asked suddenly. So apropos was the question, so close to Dick’s own thoughts, that it made him wonder—not for the first time—if he and Nix hadn’t grown a little too attuned to each other, more than was strictly healthy.

“Not really,” he answered. He had a sudden realization that Nix kept track of his comings and goings, and it made his heart accelerate quite absurdly. “You?”

“Sparky Speirs and I were thinking of a little poker night at the club. Care to join?”

“I’m no good at poker,” Dick said, which was not true: he was a decent player, good at calculating odds and keeping emotions from showing on his face, which was made easier by the lack of drinking. But the game held no appeal for him, and he’d rather say he wasn’t good at something Nix liked than just shoot it down.

“Come on, we play for peanuts,” Nix replied, misunderstanding.

Dick wondered what counted as peanuts in the Nixon household: how much more than the sum he wired to his family every month, for example. But that wasn’t why he didn’t want to play, at least not especially, and it irked him that Nix thought him stingy.

“No thanks,” he said curtly.

“All right. Come for the company, then. Take a break from field manuals and North Carolina maps.”

Watching a game he wasn’t going to play, in a room full of drinks he wasn’t going to drink. Nix looked expectant, and Dick wondered if it wasn’t an excuse to keep him from going out on leave. He wouldn’t have known what to think of that, if it had been true.

“We’ll see,” he said.

They reached the lake shortly before dawn, the first platoon to report. Captain Sobel, in an uncharacteristic show of indulgence, said that they could relax for an hour before it was time to drive back to camp.

The sky was still dark but it had cleared and turned into a deep marine blue, which slowly morphed into azure and pink when the sun started rising from under the horizon.

Some of the men, Dick among them, had already changed into swimming trunks and stepped into the water when the first orange sun rays started bouncing off the surface of the lake. Dick would have been the worst kind of hypocrite if he hadn’t admitted, at least with himself, that he had pushed the men harder so that they all could get this: this glorious sunrise after ten long weeks of the most miserable training ever conceived, this last moment of beauty before they shipped out to war.

He raised his face, shielding his eyes with his hand, and took in the way the wind stirred gentle waves on the surface of the lake. Treading on, he let the cold water reach his hips and allowed his body some time to get used to it before he dove in.

He took a few experimental strokes and then continued until his stiff muscles fell into a smooth rhythm. After a few minutes his body was warm and the temperature was comfortable enough to stop swimming and let himself float idly on his back. Behind his closed eyelids he enjoyed the growing warmth of the sun, feeling without seeing his body glow in a sea of orange.

There was a soft splashing noise somewhere to his right, the steady unhurried rhythm of a good swimmer. When it grew close enough, he put his legs down and squinted in his direction.

“Well, this is nice,” Nix said, pushing his hair off his face. Dick thought that Nix’s hair was always a half inch too long for a regulation haircut, but the minor rebellion suited him.

“Yeah,” Dick agreed.

He looked back at the shore. Those who weren’t swimming had laid themselves down on the grass, their camo outfits mixing nicely with the scenery. Everything looked still for a moment, and though it hadn’t been the hardest or longest exercise in the history of the platoon by far, Dick felt accomplished, content.

“Strayer asked me to move up to battalion S-2.”

Dick turned his head. Nix looked sheepish, which could only mean one thing.

“Congratulations,” he said, trying with all his might to sound cheerful, or at least like he didn’t mind.

Nix looked like he was going to ask a question, perhaps _How did you know?_ , but at this stage in their lives it would have been just plain silly. Dick might not have known that the offer had been made, but he didn’t need a hint on what Nix would have answered.

“I think it’s best,” Nix said eventually.

“Sure, it’s a promotion,” Dick agreed.

“I don’t know about that. I mean, I think it’s best if I—if we put a little distance here.”

Dick squinted and wished Nix wouldn’t face him with his back to the sun. Now he would always remember this moment with Nix’s face a shadowy blur.

“You do what you want, Nix,” he mustered, and it was all he could offer. Perhaps not the wholehearted endorsement Nix was hoping for, but Dick was only human. “When are you moving?”

“Monday.”

He nodded. “After poker night.”

“You should come, Dick. For real.”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered distractedly.

Nix sighed, turning to face the shore. 1st Platoon had arrived in the meantime; Dick made out Floyd Talbert kicking off his boots and stripping down to his shorts with boyish enthusiasm.

“I’ll tell them when we’re back at camp.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

Clearly Nix had been expecting much more of a reaction, and realizing that made it worse. He wondered what would have constituted an appropriate reaction in Lewis Nixon’s mind: perhaps an acknowledgement of his display of maturity and forethought, or even a word of thanks.

Sunrise was almost over. Somehow he had managed to miss the best part, the few minutes when the sky turned from yellow to pink to pale blue. Already everything looked as it should, dull and normal and predictable, as the day started to slowly roll forward on its rails.

Nix looked like he meant to say something else, but Dick wasn’t interested at this point. He muttered a goodbye and swam back to the shore.

  


**_1 May 1943, Camp Mackall_**

 

There had been some takers for the poker night: Salve Matheson and Clarence Hester from battalion staff, and a new Lieutenant just in from OCS by the name of Harry Welsh.

On Friday, still dizzy from a ten-hour-long train ride, Sobel had presented him to Dick like a cat would a fresh kill, equal parts magnanimity and skepticism. No doubt irony had played a part in the choice to appoint Harry as Dick’s new assistant: Sobel must have found it very funny, coupling the teetotaler and the guy who’d been busted down to private six times for fighting—four out of six while intoxicated.

“You’ll get along just fine,” Sobel had said with unabashed humor in his eyes. “Lieutenant Welsh is a fellow Pennsylvanian.”

The way he’d said it—like people from Pennsylvania all danced together in big circles around the fire and shared a second cousin named Mary—Dick could tell that it had triggered something in the new guy, a minimal frown, the ghost of a smirk. Dick had a feeling that they would, indeed, get along just fine.

Now at the poker table Harry Welsh sported a more-than-half-empty glass of scotch and fit right in with the Toccoa men as if he too had jumped off that Southern Railway train ten months earlier, back when it was still called Camp Toombs.

In a full role reversal, though hardly a surprising one, Dick felt like the odd man out. The club was quite full, and he wasn’t the only one not playing nor the only one not drinking—Hester was still recovering from a bad stomach bug and clearly resenting it—but he was the only one not doing either, and a glass of coke didn’t do much to ease his empty-handedness.

He followed the game for a while, along with a few others. Poker wasn’t exactly up his alley, but sometimes it was interesting to see people play, identify their strategies or lack thereof, recognize how their personality translated into the game.

Matheson for example was a solid player, odds rolling continuously behind his eyes, the only risk taken a calculated one. Speirs liked to bluff a lot, but rarely went all-in with more than a casual shot at success. Hester was the one who lost the most money, though Dick had a feeling that sometimes he just got bored and let it happen.

Nix was quirky. He played distractedly, his hands always busy with something, his bottomless drink, his cigarettes, the neck of the bottle. The cards he picked up and glanced at cursorily, like he would a scrap of paper left on the table. His decisions were quick and inspired or made to look so, and suggested a carelessness with money that Dick used to find insulting until he’d realised that it was, like many things Nix did, just for show. _This pile of money? Take it. I got ten like it at home_.

An hour into the thing, Dick had lost count of the poker rounds, though not of Nix’s refills (three). He was hopelessly bored, his glass was empty and lukewarm and his taste for soda gone. He checked his watch and thought he’d call it a day at the end of this round.

Matheson and Hester had already folded; the next was Speirs, who shook his head with a thin smile and dropped his cards on the table. Welsh and Nix remained to face off. From where Dick was standing he couldn’t see either’s hand, but he had a good view of their faces. They both had a grin plastered to their lips; Nix looked especially smug.

“You are so full of shit, Nixon,” Harry declared happily.

“You got some balls, what’s-your-face, insulting me at my table.”

Harry’s smile faltered, an apology already on his lips, but Nix’s grin grew even larger and more conceited. “You in or not?”

Harry rested his back against the chair and licked his lips. “I’ll raise you a dollar. Let’s see those babies.”

“It’s two for the privilege, son.”

Harry bit his lower lip. “Make it five.”

“Look at you, with your big boy bets. Eight.”

On Welsh’s left, Matheson groaned loudly. “Is no one going to tell him? Buddy, this smug bastard here shits diamonds and wipes his ass with money bills.”

“Well, here’s a few more then. Ten dollars.”

Nix smiled. He was enjoying himself immensely. He picked up his hand from the table, spread it, shook his head softly, still smiling, folded the cards and put them down. He looked up at Dick and _winked_ —boyishly, brazenly, all mischief. That was when Dick knew with absolute certainty that he had a winning hand.

“Nah. I’m out.”

The table and its surroundings exploded in an exclamation. Happy as a boy on Christmas night and more than a little tipsy already, Harry collected his winnings and called for a new round of drinks, then got up and personally led the charge to the bar.

Dick took advantage of the break to catch Nix’s attention. “I’ll be going now.”

“Mm,” Nix said, his lips curled around a new, still unlit cigarette. “Let me see you out.”

He grabbed his jacket and followed him outside. It had just stopped raining, for a change, and water dribbled gently all around them from gutters and tree branches.

“Smoke one with me,” Nix said, offering the open packet.

“No, it’s fine, thanks.”

“Come on.” Nix shook the packet, his smile thin and veined with something like—what? Insecurity, Dick decided. “It won’t kill you. Well, not right away.”

“I never got a taste for it. It’s wasted on me.”

“Never,” Nix replied, but gave up on pressing. He lit his own cigarette.

“I like the new guy,” he said, snapping the lighter shut. “He’s a happy drunk. We need more of that where we’re going.”

“That your professional opinion, Nix?” Dick smiled. “That the Army needs more drunks?”

“ _Happy_ drunks. Sad drunks, they’re no good in a fight. Too mopey. Happy drunks love fighting.”

“He’s got some of that happiness on his record.”

“Oh yeah?”

Dick nodded.

“Well, ain’t you quite the couple,” Nix grinned.

Dick crossed his arms. “We’ll see how he fits in. He seems all right.”

“He does, doesn’t he.”

There was water dripping somewhere to Dick’s right, a nice rhythmic sound that triggered a vague memory of home. For a while he got lost listening to it, and when he realized, it felt like they’d been standing there in silence for an awkwardly long stretch of time.

“Shouldn’t you go back to your game?” he said, looking at Nix’s diminishing cigarette.

“They’ll call me when they need me,” Nix replied. “We’re celebrating here.”

“Ah, that’s what we’re doing.”

“Well, that’s one mystery solved.” Dick raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “Dick Winters _can_ be a jerk if he applies himself to it,” Nix concluded happily.

He loved discovering Dick’s little character flaws. He seemed to hunt them like Easter eggs, saving them in a special storage unit of his mind, ready to be flaunted at the right time. He had no interest in Dick—or anyone else, for that matter—improving himself. It would have just detracted from his fun.

“Good that I have you to keep my manners in check, Nix.”

“Any time. Frankly, I don’t know how you’ll do without me.”

“Yeah. I don’t either,” Dick agreed softly.

Suddenly there was a frown between Nix’s eyebrows, but when he looked again, it smoothed itself out like it had never existed. “Come inside, let’s play a round.”

Dick shook his head. “No, I’m going to bed.”

“Just one.”

“No, thanks.”

“Jesus, are you gonna make me beg for everything tonight?”

There was genuine frustration in Nix’s voice, mixed with a whininess that Dick didn’t like at the best of times, even less so on a day like this. It triggered something in him, the intransigent streak that made him a good officer and a decent human being, only multiplied a hundredfold.

“Last I checked, I didn’t owe you a thing.”

Nix hesitated. “What?”

“Forget it,” Dick said, regretting it already. “I’m going.”

He took a step back, but Nix’s hand shot to his arm, grabbing. “Wait a minute.”

“Let go,” Dick said dryly.

“No, that’s interesting. Say that again.”

Dick set his jaw and bent his arm under Nix’s fingers, tensing up. “What did you expect, Nix? A round of applause?”

“Goddamnit, don’t you see that I’m trying to save you, you stupid—”

“I don’t need saving,” Dick hissed. “Don’t you dare.”

“Not that kind of saving,” Nix retorted, with a bitter laughter. He leaned closer, hand still firmly wrapped around Dick’s bicep. “It was too close, all right? It was too fucking close, and we were barely—And you going about like nothing had happened. What kind of a life is that?”

Dick realized for the first time that of all the things he had expected would bother Nix, secrecy had never come to mind. Yet it was obvious. Everything with Nix was on display: his antipathies, his affairs, his drinking. Take it or leave it, the whole package. Dick had pitied his wife, thinking her long-suffering and oblivious, but it had been presumptuous of him: of course she knew. She must know, because Nix never bothered hiding a thing.

“We were careless once,” Dick said.

“I’m always fucking careless around you,” Nix hissed. “That’s what you do to me. Or haven’t you noticed?”

Dick opened his mouth, and before he could stop himself the words were out.

“You’re scared,” he said, surprise knocking down his mental filters. Because damn, Nix _scared_. It was an epiphany on its own.

“You’re damn right I am,” Nix muttered, dropping his arm.

So that was it, and Dick blamed himself for not understanding sooner. He looked at Nix, took in his sullen expression, his clenched fist, the way he was biting his lower lip, and felt warm all over. _Lew_ , he thought, the name bouncing off the walls of his mind with an echo. _My dear Lew._

“Well, we can’t have that,” he said softly.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” Nix growled.

Dick turned around and started walking away. For a moment it seemed like Nix was too surprised to react.

“Dick, what the hell—?”

He didn’t stop. He merely cast Nix a glance over his shoulder and kept walking, and soon enough he heard the boots squelching on the muddy ground a few steps behind. He thought that Nix might stop when it became obvious where they were headed, but he didn’t, and Dick let him into their quarters first and followed and locked the door behind his back.

Locks. They hadn’t had them at Toccoa. Not that it would have made a difference then, seeing how things had gone, but the illusion of privacy would have been nice.

“Dick, what is it?” Nix asked, voice tense.

“Take off your boots,” he said distractedly, kneeling down to do the same.

In the dim light, Nix remained very still. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you smearing mud everywhere.” He got up, kicking off his shoes, and shuffled towards Nix in his socks. “Now, please.”

Maybe it was the tone, maybe Nix didn’t really need convincing; regardless, he kneeled down and complied. For a moment all Dick could hear was the snap of the boot laces coming undone in little jerks and slapping the leather, then the heavy drops of the shoes on the wooden floor. Nix stood up even more slowly, breathing unevenly.

“This is a shitty idea,” he murmured.

“Door’s locked,” Dick said, coming closer. He put his hand on Nix’s shoulder, then ventured it up to the back of his neck. “It’s dark, it’s Sunday, and it’s late.” He took a step forward, pushing gently but firmly, and Nix took one step backward to keep his balance. They waltzed like that for a while, Dick advancing, Nix retreating, until Nix stumbled and was saved from tumbling over by Dick grabbing the front of his jacket and the wall simultaneously materialising behind his back. Nix’s body hitting the prefabricated wall made it vibrate nicely.

“Dick, for God’s sake,” Nix sighed when Dick’s hand moved up to cup his cheek. In full contrast with his voice, his right hand curled around Dick’s hip under the hem of the jacket, palm hot through the cotton shirt.

“Remember our first jump?” Dick asked. “When the C-47 started rolling down the hill because it had no room to take off?”

“Yes. Fuck that airstrip,” Nix muttered. “Fuck Toccoa, and fuck that dwarf of an airstrip.”

“Atlanta? When Sink ordered the pilot to fly the plane so close to the ground that we almost crashed into that barn?”

Nix let out a huff. “I swear, Sobel wet his pants a little.”

Dick’s thumb brushed Nix’s cheek ever-so-gently, rough skin on dark stubble. “You are impossible,” he murmured, heart aching with the same tenderness he’d felt when Nix had told him that he wanted him—no, that Dick was the only man he wanted. “All of that, we’re shipping out to our deaths, and _this_ is what you’re scared of?”

Something vibrated in Nix’s throat, the beginnings of laughter. His hands rose to both sides of Dick’s face. “And they made you XO,” he said in such an affectionate voice that Dick felt a tug inside his ribcage, and was drawn the remaining fraction of an inch closer. “You think I’m scared for myself?”

“I—”

“I’ll spell it out for you, all right? Since you’re a little slow these days.” He smoothed a stray lock of red hair back in its place. “They find out, they court-martial me. Dishonorably discharged. Sure, it sucks, but guess what? I go home and someone makes it disappear. Or not. Either way I couldn’t care less.”

“You don’t really think that.”

Nix frowned. “Well, I’d care some. I wouldn’t see you anymore, would I?” He stared into Dick’s eyes like he’d seen something truly intolerable in them. “But you, my friend, you’d be off making bricks at sixty cents an hour, ’cause good luck finding a decent job with something like _that_ on your record.”

“And you think I don’t know?” Dick replied, swallowing down the image that Nix had laid out for him.

“You sure act like it.”

Dick shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“Dick, this gotta stop. You’re risking everything for—for—”

“What?”

“An easy fuck,” Nix answered, suddenly looking out of steam.

Dick opened his mouth to reply and found that he couldn’t. Nix might think that of Wally Moore and however many others he imagined Dick had the habit of meeting in secret, but for him to put himself in the same league as any of them... The idea was so absurd it didn’t even warrant consideration, and yet the self-deprecation in Nix’s voice was genuine. It would’ve been ridiculous if it wasn’t heartbreaking.

“Lew, come on,” he said softly. He inched closer with his whole body and his face, and maybe Nix was too exhausted to react, because he didn’t even try to move away.

“No,” Nix murmured, weakly. “I mean it. I’m moving up, and—”

“So move up,” Dick said. “I don’t care.” He pressed his lips to the corner of Nix’s mouth. “Lew. I’m too proud to beg.”

“You’re not listening,” Nix sighed.

“I am. You want it, it’s dangerous, you think you’re not worth it.” He kissed the spot again, lingering for a moment. “I say we’ll be careful.”

“It’s—I can’t—It’s a shitty idea,” Nix said for the second time, and Dick knew from the way the other tried to put up this one last, hopeless defense that he had won.

“Worse than jumping from planes?”

So maybe it wasn’t worse than jumping from planes, because at that point Nix held Dick’s head fast and kissed him, hesitant first, then strong and urgent, pushing his tongue into Dick’s mouth.

Dick sighed sharply through his nose, tightening his own grip on the back of Nix’s neck, and put his free hand up against the wall. It was so good to be kissing him again, really kissing him, his limbs tangled with Nix’s limbs, his face wrapped in Nix’s scent. He bent his head to put his mouth to Nix’s neck, to that spot right under the ear that he’d always thought would be where his smell was the strongest, and continued kissing there, and since he was feeling brave and already a little crazy with lust he opened his mouth and gave it a little, experimental lick.

Nix moaned softly in his throat. He grabbed a fistful of Dick’s hair, though it was so short at the back that he had to thread his fingers all the way through and hold them against Dick’s scalp, back to front, to be able to grip anything at all, and fished Dick’s face out of the hollow of his neck. He looked flushed and a little crazy himself, with his body plastered to the wall and to Dick’s front—and very, very hard.

Dick released Nix’s face to thrust his hand between their bodies, quickly undoing Nix’s belt and all the buttons down to the last.

“Here?” Nix asked in a rough voice as Dick took Nix’s cock out of his pants and gave it a first, long pull. “You want to do it here?”

“Yes,” Dick said, kissing his mouth.

Nix kissed him back, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp. Dick rolled his tongue around Nix’s, tugging lazily at his cock all the while.

“We’ve got two—ah—two beds, you know,” Nix sighed in his mouth.

“I can’t ruin this uniform. My laundry is due Monday.”

“So take it off.”

The suggestion sent a shiver down Dick’s spine, but he had already made up his mind. A part of him was still wary of his luck and afraid that anything more adventurous or intimate would send Nix packing before the last item of clothing had been shed.

“I like it here,” he said simply.

“You—Jesus Christ,” Nix breathed, swallowing back a laughter when Dick pulled his foreskin down and rubbed his thumb over the sensitive head of his cock. “You’re a rather domineering fella, anybody told you that?”

“Sometimes,” Dick smiled, then suddenly felt hesitant. “Does it bother you?”

“No. No, just—It’s new, that’s all. It’s all new.”

 _I’m remaking you_ , Dick thought, and something that might well have been joy swept over him and made his ears ring.

He gave up his hold against the wall to free his left hand and undo his pants. It was a bit slower, the movement unfamiliar coming from the left side, but he eventually made it. His cock still in his pants, he took Nix’s hand out of his hair, kissed its palm and then gently guided it downwards, his pressure almost non-existent, should Nix decide that it was all too much or too fast.

Nix didn’t. His fingers moved aside the fabric of Dick’s underpants and took Dick’s cock out, running his fingertips slowly over it in reconnaissance. Dick had a sudden question on his lips.

“Have you ever—”

“What? No. Of course not,” Nix said quickly, then swallowed. “I mean. I don’t mean it like—Can’t you tell?”

Dick nodded carefully. “I thought maybe in college,” he murmured.

“No, just girls. Have you—Is that how you—?”

“Yes.”

Nix exhaled sharply as Dick’s mouth went back to that sweet spot under his ear and moved up from there, wet lips closing around Nix’s earlobe, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge of Nix’s ear in a slow upwards movement. Nix’s stomach muscles twitched against Dick’s knuckles.

Dick thrust forward into Nix’s hand and he felt Nix’s grip tighten around him. He sighed with relief, brushing his cheek against Nix’s, and leaned a little onto him.

“How do you like it?” Nix asked to his temple. Dick thought the question sounded like something out of a bartender’s mouth, which in Nix’s case was also oddly appropriate. _How do you like your whiskey, sir?_

“It doesn’t matter. Just—Yes,” he sighed, as Nix started jerking him off in earnest.

“You’re so hard,” Nix whispered with genuine amazement. Dick thought of that first time in Toccoa and knew exactly what Nix meant. _You’re so hard, and it’s because of me._

“You talk a lot,” he chuckled, because he felt overly soft and dizzy with pleasure and didn’t trust his mouth to convey what he was thinking.

“I’ll shut up,” Nix said.

“No—Don’t. I like it.”

He shifted his weight slightly, putting his left arm flat against the wall, elbow to hand, around Nix’s shoulders. It was a bit like a hug, and Nix leaned back into it, eyes closed, hips thrusting into Dick’s hand, his own hand following the rhythm.

“This is good,” Nix said after a while. His breath came out in short puffs now.

“Yeah?” Dick asked, rolling his thumb over the small ridge right under the head of Nix’s cock, feeling every tiny crease and fold of his skin.

“Yeah. It’s—Damn, it’s good. Just a little faster, can you—? Yes. Like this. Yes.”

He threw his head back against the wall, making Dick wonder if he did the same when he was alone, if he made the same sounds and touched himself just like he was touching him now. The thought almost made Dick lose it, but he dipped his head in Nix’s neck and held firm for a moment, refusing to give in yet.

“Afraid I’m gonna ruin that clean uniform of yours,” Nix laughed, voice thick.

“Wait,” Dick breathed. He let go for a moment to fish his handkerchief from his pocket. Nix’s cock was sticky with perspiration and slick with precome.

Nix raised his free hand to the back of Dick’s neck and pulled him close, eyes large and bright and fixed into his with a hot, unflinching expression. At the same time he increased the pace, and it struck Dick that Nix wanted to see him come, to see all of it.

At such close distance he could see the color on Nix’s cheeks and on his lips even in the minimal light of the room. It was beautiful, how ruddy he looked, like he did at the end of a long drinking session, minus the intoxication.

Suddenly the pressure was too much to bear. Dick bit into his lower lip, a sound forming at the back of his throat, breath coming out in small gasps out of his nose as he spent himself in Nix’s hand. He stopped his instinct to dip his face into Nix’s neck, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from falling shut.

When he opened them again, Nix was smiling with the same intent expression. Dick’s legs felt wobbly.

“That was something,” Nix said softly, running his thumb over Dick’s bottom lip—a brazen, possessive little gesture that resonated with something in a deep-seated part of Dick’s brain and made his head spin. He opened his lips and Nix’s thumb brushed the edge of his front teeth. Dick kissed it, wondering idly what it would feel like to suck each one of Nix’s fingers.

Nix rocked into Dick’s hand, a little urgently now. “Do you mind? I’m—Yeah,” he sighed. “You gonna watch while I—”

“Yes,” Dick promised, eagerly.

Nix licked his lips, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure but still fixed on him, watching him watch. It was one of the most erotic sights Dick had ever witnessed, and he almost dropped on his knees there and then. Nix was not far himself; soon he tensed and twitched under Dick’s touch, breathing sharply. When he came, he did so with a loving string of obscenities on his mouth.

Dick put away his handkerchief and rested his forehead on Nix’s shoulder, uncomfortable on his feet but loathe to move.

It was a few minutes before either of them did or said anything. Finally Nix’s left hand touched his cheek, tapping it gently with his fingertips.

“How long has it been?”

Dick checked his watch. “Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“I need to go back.”

Dick sighed. “All right.”

Nix had already started to disentangle his limbs when he noticed Dick’s expression. He smiled awkwardly. “I’ll be back. Just—Better avoid questions.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dick agreed. He took a step back, freeing Nix from the wall, and headed towards his bed. Nix fumbled behind him for while, said, “I’ll head out then,” and left.

Now that it was over, Dick felt drained and unsure, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He imagined Nix had gone to the latrine; he gave him some time to be done with it and then went to clean himself up.

He got into bed thinking he would wait, but eventually tiredness got the best of him and he fell asleep with his wristwatch still on.

He woke up to the weight of another body pushing down the bed behind him; a second pillow dropped next and half on top of his. Nix sighed deeply somewhere close to his ear, breath smelling like whiskey and toothpaste.

“Hey,” Nix said to his nape.

“Hey,” Dick mumbled sleepily, peeking over his shoulder. “How was the game?”

“Shit. Lost a whole lot of money.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be. My head was not in the game, not one bit.” Nix wrapped a cold hand around his shoulder. “Turn around,” he murmured, pulling a little.

Dick obeyed, though the bed was definitely too small for that configuration and their knees bumped. Nix casually rearranged a leg over his, shifting closer. He was wearing just his boxer shorts and an undershirt. His leg hair tickled Dick’s skin, and Dick couldn’t resist dropping a hand on Nix’s thigh to feel it properly.

“Hands off, mister. We’re sleeping here,” Nix warned him, in an amused voice. There was a little rough note to it, and Dick smiled and moved his hand up to Nix’s waist, where Nix’s undershirt was rolled up messily around his ribcage. Dick made a show of teasing the hem between his fingers for a while before finally pulling the fabric down and resting his palm on top of it.

Nix had been holding his breath since the beginning of the whole operation. “Who are you?” he said, emptying his lungs with a chuckle. “I’m starting to wonder.”

“I’m the same person,” Dick replied, tensing up for some reason.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. It just—It feels like I’ve never met this guy in front of me before.”

Dick’s hand travelled up to Nix’s cheek. A memory hit him hard as he looked at Nix’s face encased between his hand and the pillow, and for a moment he felt pleasantly fuzzy. “I’ll show you more. If you want.”

“Yeah,” Nix said, closing his eyes, sounding so utterly comfortable with the idea of _more_ that Dick was already leaning over before he knew what he was doing, and he would have kissed him had it not been for a sudden noise outside.

“Did you lock the door?” Dick asked, already half up on his elbow.

“Yep. Checked twice.” Nix took on a pensive look. “Now that I’m moving my stuff, I guess we lose locked door privileges.”

Dick instinctively glanced over his shoulder to see Nix’s bedside table already cleared out. “Yeah. But camp is not a good place anyway.”

“It isn’t, is it?” Nix retorted smugly. “Not a good place to, say, drag your friend to a room and get off all over his shirt, uh?”

“Did I—?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Couldn’t you—use something?”

“I did, but it was dark and you kept shooting for three minutes.”

“Well,” Dick mumbled, blushing at the exaggeration. “I can hardly be blamed for—Besides. It’s been a while.”

Nix was silent for a moment after this. “Your friend playing hard to get?” he asked at length.

Dick opened his mouth to answer, but there was a dangerous vibe in Nix’s voice, and he couldn’t resist exploring the full extent of whatever was passing through his mind.

“It bothers you.”

“No,” Nix said.

“Lew.”

“What? It’s not like we’re—I don’t care.” He sat up on his hands, looking over at his own bed.

Dick touched his wrist. “We’re the same, you know.”

Nix chuckled bitterly. “No, we’re not.”

“You don’t want another man, you said.”

“God, no.”

“And I feel the same.”

Nix looked down at him. For a moment he seemed stunned, none of his usual wit coming to him to break the intensity of the moment into something more manageable.

Dick rubbed Nix’s wrist with a thumb, idly tracing the pattern of the veins. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d made myself clear.”

“Say that again,” Nix murmured, lying down on his side.

“I don’t want another man,” Dick repeated, softly and clearly. Out loud like that, it sounded final. Biblical.

“Huh,” Nix mumbled, like he was still wrapping his mind around the idea.

Dick smiled at his confusion and inched forward to kiss him, feeling warm all over. Nix answered in kind, though he pulled away first. “All right, now don’t you go all soft on me,” he murmured, sounding a little embarrassed.

“You gonna sleep here?”

“I can go.”

“No. I don’t mind,” Dick said. “But one of us needs to turn around.”

Nix turned onto his left side, facing the edge of the bed. Dick tentatively touched his hip, and when Nix didn’t react, he snaked his arm around the other’s waist. It wasn’t the most comfortable position for a long stay, but Dick could smell Nix’s pomade and he knew the scent would linger on his pillow long after the other had left, so it wasn’t all that bad.

“Jesus, you’re all bones,” Nix joked.

“You’re not too soft yourself.”

“I’ve seen what you like. It’s not soft.”

“This here is what I like.” And then, when no reply came: “Good night, Nix.”

He was almost asleep when Nix’s arm shifted under his. Nix’s fingers thrust between his knuckles and then, once locked together like that, gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Nix let out a breath and with it, it seemed, a whole lot of weight.

Dick felt that the gesture wasn’t meant for him, so he didn’t show that he was awake. He just revelled in the quiet sense of contentment, and after a few minutes he was asleep for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's and Nix's first meeting diverges from the series canon (where they meet on the day they're moving out of Camp Mackall... for some reason?). It fits in the book canon instead. I _really_ wanted to write Harry into this scene, so yeah :D


	8. Chapter 8

**_Late July 1943, New York City_ **

 

Colonel Sink wanted a truckload of Southern Comfort for the regiment, and as was often the case with the man, the idea had set root in his brain, germinated and turned into action in virtually no time.

Nix had witnessed the very moment the idea had seen the light: one week in at Fort Bragg, on a Tuesday night at the officers’ club, the good colonel had asked for a glass of bourbon and had been faced with an apology and the sorry state of the club’s liquor stock.

The next morning the detail was on Dick’s desk. The full extent of it also included an order for two hundred trench coats, though Dick didn’t doubt for a moment which part of the task carried more weight in the colonel’s eyes.

Nix had managed to snatch an extra leave day that upcoming Friday to attach to his weekend pass, but Dick had to be off to Philadelphia already on Thursday, so there was no chance they could train together. The mismatch frustrated him a little, but he managed to keep the feeling at bay until the night, when Nix dragged him to the storage shed which hosted the regiment’s camping equipment and proceeded to jerk him off between a pile of rolled-up tents and a stack of tarpaulins.

“What was that for?” Dick asked afterwards, while Nix cleaned himself up.

“What, do I need a reason?”

“You don’t, but I thought maybe you had one.”

“Well,” Nix said. “I won’t see you for a while, and I know how you get when you’re not looked after.”

“How do I get?” Dick asked, smiling. He reached out in the dark, finding Nix’s hip, and pulled him close with both hands on his waist.

“Fickle.”

 _“Fickle_ ,” Dick laughed, because Nix was teasing, and when Nix teased everything was fine. He rested the small of his back against the wall, bending his knees a little to open his legs wider and draw Nix between them. He ran his hands lightly on Nix’s back, careful not to crinkle his shirt.

Normally Nix would have resisted the display of affection, letting himself be touched for a minute before pulling away with an excuse (a cigarette, a touch of cough, a sudden thirst for his flask), but it was dark and Dick was leaving in the morning and Nix stayed exactly where Dick wanted him.

“You’re going home once you’re done in Philly, right?”

“Yes, if I can. I’ll spend the night there and train back the next day.”

“All right.”

“What?”

“Mm? Nevermind.”

He sounded a little faraway now, lost in his own thoughts, and Dick didn’t press.

That was Nix’s regular mood before going home. It started pensive three or four days ahead, it macerated slowly in some dark cellar of his mind and it ended up spoiled on the day of departure. Dick knew to steer clear and let it decant in peace; he had been doing exactly that when Nix had come looking for him.

He thought about it through most of his northbound train ride, and the memory was still lingering at the back of his head when he signed off the coats order and set to tackle the head-scratching problem of finding the equivalent of two hundred bottles of bourbon whiskey in the middle of war rationing.

It was past nine when he admitted defeat and dragged himself aboard the last train to Lancaster. Once home, he phoned regimental headquarters to report on his progress and a sleepy, pissed-off orderly told him that he would receive a phone call in the morning.

By the time he hung up it was almost midnight. The house was dark and silent, faintly ringing with a distant snoring. His mother had left a casserole on the table for him to warm up, but he was starving and ate it as it was, straight from the pan at room temperature, sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights down. By now he’d been through enough night field exercises that city darkness with its faint, diffuse light didn’t feel truly dark anymore.

He left the container to soak in the sink and went to shower, which he did swiftly and with the least amount of water he could, not to bother his family too much with the noise.

When he finally got into bed, his wristwatch read zero-one-zero-five. He took it off and put it on the nightstand folded upright so that he could see the time from the bed. Then, before letting himself drift off to sleep, he unfolded the small piece of paper he’d been carrying in the inner breast pocket of his jacket all day and read it again and again until he stopped seeing the contents.

“You got a telephone back home, right?” Nix had asked that morning.

“Yeah, why?”

Nix didn’t answer. He moved his cigarette from his fingers to the corner of his mouth, produced a small notepad and a pencil from his pocket and quickly jotted something down. He tore the paper away and handed it over.

“What would I do with this?” Dick asked.

Nix stole a sideway glance, pretending that the main focus of his attention was outside the window of Dick’s quarters. He shrugged. “Call, I guess. If you get in trouble, or—”

“In trouble?” Dick smiled.

“Country boy gets lost in the big city. Easy prey. Story as old as time.”

“With a truckload of whiskey, no less.”

Nix grinned at this. Dick itched to touch him but looked away instead, pocketing the note. He wouldn’t call, but he would hang onto it for a while.

“Or if you get bored,” Nix added, trying very hard to make it sound like an afterthought. “After you’re done feeding the chickens, or mowing the lawn, or whatever it is you folks do to pass the time.”

Dick considered replying, _Can’t you just say you’ll miss me?_ , but there was no way this could steer the conversation to a good place, not matter how generously he coated it with humor or affection, and besides, seeing Nix on edge made him feel on edge too.

So he said: “It’s just a few days,” and pretended that that was all he meant, a factual remark on the passing of time, certainly not something along the lines of _It’s ridiculous, it’s a joke, it shouldn’t be possible to miss someone before you have even parted._

Now lying down in his childhood bed he imagined walking downstairs to the phone and dialing Nix’s number. He pictured the scene at the other end of the line: the phone going off in the middle of the night, baby Michael waking up and starting to cry, Kathy Nixon rushing to pick him up. Nix would have been left with the task to tell the untimely caller to kindly go to hell. Perhaps he would have been a little happy when he recognized Dick’s voice; more likely he would have been annoyed and awkward and he would have kept the conversation brief, throwing frequent looks at the stairs from which he’d descended. Finally he would have hung up with barely a goodbye, and the rest of his night would have been ruined by the intrusion.

Or maybe Nix would be alone, Kathy having gone to visit her parents with the kid and stayed the night—very inconsiderate of her—and they would be able to talk, really talk for a while, Dick recounting his maddening evening in Philadelphia, Nix laughing softly in his mouthpiece, and all the while Nix’s voice would grow deeper and slower and more tender with sleepiness and whiskey and affection.

But then he remembered that Nix wasn’t home at all, he was still on his night train, right now probably somewhere around Washington DC. This, and exhaustion, cut his musings short. He put the small note back into the inner pocket of his jacket and went to sleep.

In the morning Colonel Sink’s XO called and gave him the name and address of a large liquor distributor based in New York City, so he was off to the station again.

The business was located at the 22nd floor of a shared office building. Dick arrived at lunch time, finding the door locked, and for a moment he considered just standing in the hallway until someone let him in, but he eventually decided to go for a walk.

He bought a sandwich from a street vendor and ate it on a bench in Chelsea Park, in front of the Great War memorial. The young man of the statue had a fierce, distant look about his eyes, the right flap of his coat fluttering open over his shoulder like a comic book hero. It was no good thinking like this, he knew, but the contrast between the grimness of the memorial and the beautiful summer day above it put him in a morbid mood, and Dick ended up wondering if the model had survived to see the statue made. Then he realized that the monument must’ve been made years later, and this valiant trooper had either never existed or not served at all.

One hour later he was allowed into what looked like a harem of beautiful secretaries, a line-up of perky bustiers, flawless updos and pointy lacquered nails. The manager, an off putting little man with a bad foot, smiled at his awkwardness in the condescending way older men sometimes smiled at him. Dick thought the guy expected him to feel intimidated, which he did, though maybe not exactly for the same reasons as any other man who’d have crossed through that door. Regardless, Dick was the carrier of an excellent business offer and they had no trouble agreeing on the terms: soon enough the order was placed, all necessary arrangements made, the postal money orders counted and endorsed one by one to meet the required sum, the man thanked and the secretaries lost and forgotten.

It was a little after four when he left the distributor’s office, feeling accomplished and relieved because now he could head home and take off in the morning as he had originally planned, whiskey complication notwithstanding.

He went back to Penn Station and stood in line to use a payphone, from which he placed a toll call to regimental headquarters. He informed them that the order was on its way and was ready to hang up when Lieutenant Colonel Chase’s assistant said: “Hold the line for a moment, Lieutenant.” There was a shuffling noise, then silence for a while. Dick silently counted the seconds adding to his long-distance call bill.

Finally Chase himself came to the phone. “So, Lieutenant—”

Dick bit off an impatient sigh. “Winters, sir.”

“Winters, yes. Well done. You take the weekend off and spend it with your family, Lieutenant. With the compliments of Colonel Sink.”

“Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir.”

Happy with the way things had turned out, Dick headed to the ticket booth and asked for a one-way ticket to Philadelphia. And then, as he put his hand in his pocket, he realized that his wallet was gone.

He had to wait a few minutes to let his frustration subside before he was able to even think about what to do. He still had a small sum in money orders safely folded in his inner pocket, more than enough to pay for his way home, but he would have to explain why he had had to use it. Or he could use what was left of his pocket cash to place another phone call: his father could come pick him up, if Dick could tolerate inconveniencing him like that.

He turned the problem in his head for a little while longer, and when he couldn’t see a better way out he walked sheepishly back to the payphone, dialed the number and waited nervously for someone to pick up.

“What?” came a rough voice from the device. There was a rattling noise in the background, like a wooden toy.

Dick frowned, taken aback. He wondered if he’d got the wrong number and almost apologized right away, but something in the voice kept him hooked.

“I’m looking for Lewis Nixon,” he said, almost a question.

“You got him. Who is it?” Nix replied. He sounded pissed and well on his way to drunk already.

“It’s me.” How arrogant of him, how condescending to introduce himself like that. He cleared his throat. “Dick Winters.”

“Oh. Hey,” Nix replied, his voice changing immediately, becoming louder and clearer, as if he had adjusted the mouthpiece closer to his face. “You called.”

“Yeah, I—”

“What’s the ruckus? I can barely hear you.”

“I’m at Penn Station.”

“What station?”

“Pennsylvania Station. I’m in New York.” He shook his head, stupidly, as if the other could see the gesture and read his embarrassment. “I guess you were right about country boys.”

“Country boys? What? What happened?”

Dick explained in a sentence, and repeated it after no reply came the first time.

There was a soft rustling noise, and from very far away he heard a woman’s voice. Dick recognized the pitch but not the words, as it seemed to grow closer and closer but not any more distinct. Nix said something, but his voice was also muffled. Then, clearly:

“You see the big clock?”

“The—? Yeah, I do.”

“Kathy, just take him, all right? I gotta—” Nix mumbled, not to him, his voice partially covered by a furious rattling. “For Christ’s sake, Kat, not now.” And then, to Dick: “I’ll meet you under the clock.” He hung up.

It was less than an hour later when Nix popped out of the crowd as if he’d been hiding among them the whole time, one of a handful of men in uniform. He looked tidy and handsome, hair pomaded, olive drabs neatly pressed, though Dick’s trained eye spotted a few glitches: his tie hanging a little askew, one open button on his right cuff.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said by way of a greeting.

“For what?” Nix smiled, touching his arm. He looked more cheerful than Dick had seen him in weeks. If he had been drinking too much, he’d sobered up along the way—a thought Dick didn’t want to linger on too much. “Hey, have you eaten?”

“I had a sandwich for lunch.”

“Then we’re both starving. Come, let’s get you some food.”

“There’s no need, really. If I can just borrow some cash, I’ll go home and—”

Nix’s hand stayed on his arm, but his smile shrank a little. “Right, they’re waiting for you.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dick made a gesture. “You had to drive all the way here. I just wanna get out of your hair.”

Nix’s smile grew again, large and soft. His hand moved up to the back of Dick’s neck, brushing Dick’s jaw on the way. Dick bit off a sigh and Nix picked it up immediately, if the way he licked his lips was any indication.

“C’mon,” he said, tilting his head towards the exit. “Let’s get you in the car before they steal your pants from under your nose.”

Nix’s car was a gorgeous convertible coupé painted in a bright shade of blue, the interior all soft, cream-colored leather with chromium platings and pastel details. It didn’t look one day old, and even Dick, who had only the most cursory interest in cars, had to admit that it was a beauty. He said so as soon as he sat in the passenger’s seat.

“Thanks,” Nix said quickly, like there wasn’t really much to say, though Dick could tell that he appreciated the compliment. “There’s twenty-six more in the country. They pulled it from production right away.”

“Not too practical for your weekly grocery run?”

“Are you crazy?” Nix grinned. “A tomato touches this baby leather, it will carve a hole.” He eyed Dick’s duffel bag perched on his lap, as Dick hadn’t dared putting it down anywhere. “You afraid of thieves?” he joked, and grabbed the bag and threw it unceremoniously onto the back seat.

“So, what happened? Last I knew, you were in Philly buying booze.”

Dick told him the whole story, the little there was to tell. Nix loved the bit with the secretaries, and perhaps Dick exaggerated a little how beautiful they were and how awkward he’d felt, just to see him laugh.

“Hey, you should’ve called sooner. I could’ve helped.”

“What, sign off money orders?”

“Entertain the girls. That’s one thing I’m good at.”

Dick smiled. “I wouldn’t have dragged you over here just for that.”

“Why not? I’m excellent company.”

“Sure, but—”

“Mm?”

“You were busy.”

Nix didn’t reply, keeping his eyes on the road, and Dick looked away. It wasn’t that he especially liked bringing up Nix’s family, but he felt compelled to remind him that he had a choice where he wanted to be. It was like that with Nix sometimes, the ghost of a million better possibilities looming, and Dick simultaneously aching with pleasure for being the one he’d picked and guilt for standing in the way.

They had a quick dinner in a restaurant in midtown. Dick liked the place, he liked the cheap checkered tablecloth and the easy recipes and the succinct courtesy of the waiters. Strangely enough, Nix seemed in his element even as he looked subtly out of place, in a bohemien, touristy kind of way. The Cadillac parked half on the curb screamed _too rich for this_ , but the waiters showed him a familiarity that transcended the informality of the establishment.

“Thought you were hungry,” Nix said, eyeing Dick’s half-eaten steak.

“What? Yeah, I am,” Dick replied, putting aside his thoughts to focus on his food. “Sorry. It’s really good.”

Nix shook his cigarette in the ashtray. Dick would never be able to understand how a human being could smoke and eat at the same time, but that was Nix for you.

“Come on. What is it?”

“Well. A math problem.”

“All right?” Nix raised an eyebrow.

“I was wondering how long that load of whiskey is going to last.”

“Are you worried you’ll be sent back for more? Can’t blame you, I’m sure you barely made it out alive. These New York girls—”

“How long would you say?” Dick insisted, ignoring the joke. “Your expert opinion.”

Nix considered the question in earnest, running a quick calculation in his mind. He shrugged. “I’m gonna say a month.”

Dick nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“Sure, but why do you care?”

“Sink wouldn’t stock up on regimental budget and then leave the loot to the 501st or whoever is next in line to take our place. Would he?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then we’re shipping out in a month.”

He waited for Nix to digest what he was saying, but Nix didn’t look surprised at all—which figured, of course. “You knew.”

“No. I mean, yes, I knew it’d be soon. A month sounds about right. But I don’t know dates.”

Dick helped the food down with a half glass of water. “I wish you’d told me.”

“What?”

“To go home. That I might not have another chance to—see them.”

He wasn’t angry, more like disappointed. He understood that withholding information was an essential part of Nix’s job now, but this, this he would have really wanted to know.

“Well, I was going to, but then the whiskey thing came up and I got you this detail,” Nix replied, breezily. “And it’s not like I’ve got you chained to this table, so if you feel—”

“You did what?”

“I told you. Didn’t I? The other night.”

“You told me nothing. You dragged me—And you told me nothing. Nix—”

“What?” Nix looked amused at his exasperation, but also like the feeling was starting to rub off on him. “Sink needed someone to go to Philly. You needed to go home. I said: ‘Colonel, you know who’d be perfect for the job? Dick Winters. Guy’s as dry as a goddamn bone’. Honestly, I think he appreciated the irony.”

Dick thought of home now, which was something he didn’t want to do, not in a restaurant in midtown New York with Nix, because it made him feel like he was where he wasn’t supposed to be, like he’d broken some unspoken rule. He thought of his mother, and immediately made himself stop thinking about her.

“Well, that was kind of you,” he said at last. “Thank you.”

“Hey, any time.” He gestured at Dick’s plate. “You want dessert? I want dessert. Let’s get dessert, and then I’ll drive you back to the station. You can make it to the nine o’clock.”

Back in the coupé, half an hour later, Nix adjusted the gear and the car took off with a happy rumble. Dick looked at the road stretching ahead and felt something burn inside: an idea, a desire, just born and already fully formed.

“They’re not expecting me, you know. Not tonight.”

Nix kept driving like he hadn’t heard, but the set of his shoulders changed slightly. After a minute he said casually, as if to start off an entirely new conversation: “I don’t think I’ve ever shown you our New York place.”

“I don’t think you have,” Dick concurred.

Nix cleared his throat. “I’m told Father’s in San Francisco making amends for his latest slip, and Blanche tagged along to enjoy the show.”

Dick looked at Nix’s fingers drumming on the wheel. There were a couple things he’d let himself do if he’d been a man prone to self-indulgence: top of the list, right now, reach out and touch Nix’s knee. Before, long before, he used to think that if they ever got past a certain point in their relationship, the list of things he wanted to do would start to shrink; not vanish entirely, but slowly decrease as he finally got to try some of those things, or at least stopped wanting them. But here they were, long past that point—and his list was ever growing, and he found himself unable to stop _wanting_.

“I guess I’ll miss the nine o’clock,” he said softly.

The house was dark and silent and blessedly empty of Nixons. Nix must have planned things from the moment he had hung up the phone, if the keys in his pocket were any indication; as soon as they got inside he threw them on the phone table with a disregard for his own property that Dick would’ve normally found jarring, but right now felt justified.

“Let me find the switch,” Nix’s silhouette mumbled, hand pawing the wall.

Dick took the wrist hanging along Nix’s side, stopping his progress. “Lew,” he said, voice echoing strangely in the narrow hallway.

Nix turned around. His hands travelled up to Dick’s shoulders, touching, assessing his presence in the dark. “Now don’t tell me you want to skip the tour,” he murmured fondly.

Dick kissed him. Gently, unhurriedly, with confidence. It was the kiss equivalent of their fifth training jump, still thrilling but unsurprising. Dick’s duffel bag hit the floor with a soft thud.

“You,” Nix whispered, cradling Dick’s face in his hands. “You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Dick admitted, easily.

Giving up on finding the switch, Nix guided him through the dark hallway and past a few closed doors to the foot of the stairs. The whole way was padded with carpets, and Dick felt like a thief, stalking quietly upstairs like that. He half-expected someone to stop him and question his presence there, but there was nobody. They made it undisturbed to a bedroom—Nix’s bedroom?—and Nix shuffled deeper into the dark to turn on the bedside lamp.

Dick dropped his bag by the door, standing where Nix had left him. The room was bigger than Dick’s parents’ dining room. He looked around, searching for a sign that marked it as Nix’s own, but found nothing special. It might as well have been a hotel room.

“Do you want to take a shower?”

“Ah, yes. If you don’t mind.”

“I need one too. All I can smell on myself is baby puke.” He looked up. “Can you smell baby puke?”

“I don’t think so,” Dick answered. He tried to intercept Nix’s trajectory through the door, but Nix wriggled free easily.

“It’s that way,” he called from the corridor. “Last door to the right. I’ll grab some towels, if I can remember where the hell—” The rest of the sentence was lost in a distant mumble.

Dick proceeded to the bathroom, which was almost as big as the other room and half occupied by an imposing clawfoot bathtub. He undressed slowly, perking his ears for Nix’s steps, but nothing came for a while. To stop feeling awkward and exposed, he sat gingerly on the edge of the tub. When Nix appeared at the door, he stood up reflexively.

“Oh,” Nix said from behind a pile of folded towels, stopping dead. He smiled, and his body loosened up and leaned to the side against the door frame. “Well,” he added, uselessly.

Dick swallowed. Nix looked pleased and amused—which figured, him not being the one stark naked in someone else’s house. His face looked like something Dick had seen in a dream once.

“Well?” Dick repeated.

“I’m gathering intel,” Nix replied, finding his wit immediately.

“This how you spend your time up at battalion?”

Nix’s smile grew. He left the door frame and went to hang the towels on the wall. “C’mon, get in,” he said, gesturing at the tub. “There’s a switch that—”

“I know how a shower head works.”

“Really? I thought out in the country you folks still used a bucket.”

Dick scoffed and got in the bathtub, as moving helped his uneasiness. Out of the corner of his eye, Nix stood there by the wall for a moment, then left.

Ten minutes later Dick was sitting on the corner of the bed, hips wrapped in a towel, listening to the running water at the end of the corridor. The tap let out a squeaking noise when it was screwed shut, and soon after Nix’s barefoot steps made their way back.

Nix entered the bedroom with his clothes in hand and closed the door behind his back, leaning onto it. Water dripped from his wet hair. Dick loved how careless, how deliberately bad Nix’s posture was; how he purposefully seemed not to give a damn about standing properly, an unhealthy habit that the Army for all its trying hadn’t managed to correct.

Nix fished his cigarette pack and his lighter out of the breast pocket of his shirt and threw his clothes onto the nearest chair. As he lit the cigarette they exchanged a long glance from which they both refused to back down, studying each other quietly from across the room.

Dick got on his feet. Immediately the intensity of Nix’s look changed, like someone had amped up the light behind his eyes. Dick never really enjoyed attention as a rule, but Nix’s careful stare made him hard. As if on cue, Nix’s eyes dropped to Dick’s crotch, and a thin, powerful smile stretched his lips around the cigarette. He kept smoking unhurriedly, surveying Dick’s barefoot pilgrimage across the bedroom. The towel hung loosely from Nix’s hips, lower abs carving two diagonal dimples on either side of his stomach.

Dick knelt down in front of him, and Nix’s stomach twitched as his breath caught. Dick laid his palms on Nix’s hips on top of the towel and put his lips and his tongue to the left muscle carving, tasting tap water and soap and a faint promise of salt. When he unrolled Nix’s towel, he heard him swallow hard.

“Do you like it?” Nix asked, voice rough with lust. “Doing this?”

Dick looked up. Sometimes there were questions behind Nix’s questions, but right now he just seemed curious. He pulled the towel from Nix’s body, letting it drop to his feet. Nix’s cigarette kept smoking itself, forgotten, between his fingers.

“Yes,” Dick answered, and then took him in his mouth.

He had wanted to be slow and careful. He had planned to take his time, try out things, make it last. He had, in fact, given it an inordinate amount of thought, but none of that mattered now, because the moment he took him in his mouth he’d realized that he couldn’t give it to him in any other way than the one Nix wanted—and right now Nix wanted fast and hard and deep.

He pushed him tight against the door and Nix’s hand rose to his hair, touching first, then five hesitant fingers grazed his scalp, then Nix was gripping all he could grab a hold of—and oh, at some point they would need to have a serious talk about Nix’s fingers in his hair. He took him in as deep as he could and retreated once, returning Nix’s cock washed of any soap scent and just smelling like Nix’s skin and his own saliva, then took it in all over again.

“Oh fuck,” Nix murmured above his head, fingers twisting and crumpling and messing up his damp hair. “Jesus Christ. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, where did you— _God_.”

Dick pulled back, holding only the tip in his mouth, and rubbed the underside and the slit roughly with his tongue until Nix’s stomach muscles twitched and his voice turned raspy. Nix’s thigh contracted and relaxed a few times under Dick’s hand, and a short, aborted jerk of his hips pushed Nix’s cock a little deeper past his lips.

Dick moved his fingers to the back of Nix’s thigh and tapped it encouragingly.

Tentatively at first, so slowly that it was barely a movement at all, Nix started to fuck his mouth. Dick adjusted his position a little, accommodating the motion, and loosened up his towel to slip a hand under it. Their eyes met across the plain of Nix’s stomach, and whatever Nix saw prompted a new string of profanities.

“Look at you—you—Fuck. Can I—?”

He was doing him in earnest now, all long, deep thrusts that pressed into the roof of Dick’s mouth and made his jaw ache, and Dick closed his eyes for a second to focus on breathing the gag reflex away, while his hand moved steadily under the towel. It was absurd how much this turned him on—if Nix had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to explain it. He looked up again to be graced by Nix’s veiled stare and hummed affirmatively around his cock.

Nix moaned, a throaty sound Dick had never heard from him before, and his balls twitched and contracted a few times before he released himself into Dick’s mouth. Nix’s inner thighs trembled as he willed himself still for this, a courtesy, though Dick wouldn’t have stopped him had he wanted to fuck his own come down Dick’s throat.

When Nix was done, Dick swallowed one last time and pulled back gently. Nix’s face was red and grey with blushing and stubble; a work of art.

“Jesus Christ,” Nix whispered, touching Dick’s jaw with his fingertips, softly, almost reverently. “You—God,” he chuckled, voice damp and soft. “You look like a whore.”

Dick’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, which made Nix laugh even harder. He pulled one last drag out of his cigarette, which was all but burned out, and put it off against the door frame, flicking it away to the far end of the room. Then he pulled Dick up by his shoulders and kissed him long and deep, until Dick was sure that Nix could taste himself through the ashy scent of tobacco.

“I love it,” Nix said, combing Dick’s hair back with his fingers. “The way you look.”

“Like a whore?” Dick repeated, and this time he heard it, the humor of it, and it made him laugh.

“Yes, yes,” Nix breathed between the laughs. He pushed Dick towards the bed, kicking away the towels, and steered until Dick fell on the mattress. Nix motioned him to scoot up and Dick crawled on his elbows until his body was fully on the bed.

“So this is what you’ve been thinking about,” Nix teased him, straddling his thighs. “Out there. While we had dinner in a perfectly decent place, among perfectly decent people.”

Dick smiled. He hadn’t been picturing this in particular, but it was nice to imagine that he had, and that for once he’d got just what he wanted. “Sure it is,” he said.

“No wonder it took you forever to finish that steak.”

Nix leaned over Dick’s body, dog tags dangling from his neck, and grabbed a pillow and pulled it under Dick’s head. Encased between the silky fabric and Nix’s body on top of him, Dick sighed happily and thrust his half-erect cock into Nix’s thigh.

“So,” Nix muttered, looking down where their bodies were touching. “Do you want me to—” He looked up, his smug facade cracking up a little.

“Just—Here,” Dick said, guiding Nix’s hand between his legs. He let out a trembling breath at the contact.

“I wonder if it’s anything like licking pussy,” Nix mused, starting to stroke him. “Would you say?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“Oh. You’ve never—?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Dick answered quickly, and how absurd that this of all things should make him blush.

Nix chuckled, a fond little sound bubbling in his throat. He was happy enough relinquishing control in bed, but he’d much rather have the upper hand. Dick could tell that sometimes when they were together he felt thrown off-balance, like he had a lot of catching up to do. Dick didn’t mind looking a little more innocent than he was if it eased that feeling.

Nix laid himself down next to him, sharing his pillow, and stroked him slowly to a full hard-on. He dipped his head in Dick’s neck, kissing, sucking gently, whispering so softly that Dick could make out one word every two, but they were all hot and urgent and without exception filthy. When Nix started circling Dick’s ear with his tongue he sighed sharply, prompting the tip of said tongue to come teasing inside. The shiver that it provoked went straight down to his crotch like electric current.

“Mm, that,” Nix whispered on his skin. “This one is much more sensitive than the other, have you noticed?”

“Not until now,” Dick chuckled, feeling warm all over and coddled, taken care of.

Nix propped himself up on his elbow. His lips were a little red and swollen from all the kissing, and now they felt hot and soft on Dick’s. Dick kissed him back, open-mouthed, rolling his tongue inside Nix’s mouth. He placed a hand on the back of his neck, gently holding him in place, and nudged him to move a little faster. The slightest increase in the tempo was enough to push him close. He braced himself, hanging onto the sensation for as long as he could, and when he felt too close he broke the kiss and pushed himself up, fingers threading through Nix’s short hair, forehead touching his. Through his half-closed eyelids and the orgasm clouding his sight Dick saw Nix watch him intently, bottom lip trapped between his teeth in a thin, lopsided smile.

He fell back on the pillow, panting and laughing off the adrenaline rush.

Nix gave him a minute to catch his breath, but eventually escaped Dick’s attempt to draw him closer for one last kiss. He mumbled something and left, only to come back several minutes later—long enough for Dick to start wondering—with a wet towel in his hand. He had picked up some underwear along the way, and now he was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts.

Dick wiped his stomach and folded the towel before giving it back, but Nix simply threw it on the floor.

“Come on, get off,” he said matter-of-factly, with little of the warmth he’d used before, and Dick obeyed, confused, eyes already moving to his clothes on the chair and his bag on the floor.

Nix pulled the coverlet away and looked at him. Dick was standing next to the bed like a scolded pupil, too slow at realizing his mistake. “What is it?”

Dick frowned. “I thought that you wanted me out of here.”

Nix shook his head, not quite managing to suppress a smirk. “Used and thrown into the streets like some destitute orphan.” He lied down on the bed, kicking off the sheets and fluffing up the pillow to his liking. “I’ll take you to the station in the morning. You’ll be milking your cow by lunchtime.”

Dick hesitated, unsure whether to ask, but Nix read the question on his face anyway.

“I called. She’s not expecting me.” He eyed Dick still standing on the side of the bed, still naked. “You gonna sleep like that?”

“Yeah, no. I have—” Dick trailed off on his way to his duffel bag. He picked up clean underpants and a cotton shirt and joined Nix on the bed feeling marginally better, more decent at least, though Nix’s changeable mood had already rubbed off on him. Nix didn’t say anything, but his eyes surveyed Dick up and down like a particularly complex map.

Dick rolled onto his side, resting his head on his folded arm. It was funny, the two of them like that, in a proper bed in a proper house at the proper bedtime, like a married couple. Or maybe he was only thinking this because of Nix’s wife. He reached out to touch him and ended up resting his palm flat on Nix’s clavicle, fingers curled lightly around his shoulder.

Nix looked down at Dick’s hand, his mind perhaps locked in a similar train of thought, and slowly, gently, moved it away. “Let’s sleep, all right? I’m done for the day.”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “Sure.”

A few hours later, he woke up to an empty bed. The other side was cold, as a quick, furtive pat on the bedsheets immediately revealed.

He got up and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. He meant to go back to bed afterwards, but he noticed the light downstairs and eventually steered that way.

Nix was sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of Vat 69. When he saw Dick he raised his glass in a silent mockery of a toast.

“Glasses are over there,” he said, pointing at a cupboard.

“Thanks,” Dick said. He poured himself half a glass of water from the tap, then went to sit across the table.

“You know,” Nix said at last, in a rough, low voice that made Dick raise his head. “Out of all the shitty things I’ve done in this house, this is the one Father would really hate.”

Dick wasn’t quite sure how he liked being placed in a box with the rest of Nix’s _shitty things_. He imagined parties with reckless drinking, sex, property damage. He had a mental flash of the Cadillac, or another just as expensive toy, crushed like an accordion against the lamp post on the main road.

“Perhaps he wouldn’t care,” he offered.

Nix clucked his tongue. “Fancy that. The man who bashed a guy’s head for so much as looking at him cross-eyed, not caring that his son’s a fag.”

Dick opened his mouth, the word burning his face like a slap, only to realize that he didn’t know what to say. It was just as well, though, because Nix didn’t really expect him to contribute anything. Nix’s conversations on his family were always one-sided.

Nix downed the glass, reaching out for more. “What’s your big plan, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Nix shrugged. “One, two years from now. War’s over. What are you gonna do all alone on that farm of yours?”

Dick rotated the glass on the table in quarter turns, looking at the way the water settled down after each nudge. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

“But don’t you want—hell, don’t you want a family?”

Dick considered the question, then shook his head. “It’s all right.”

“You know what you should do,” Nix said, warming up. “You should find yourself a nice girl. No—I know, I know. Hear me out. I mean one who understands. Like—an arrangement. Mutually satisfactory.”

Nix’s tongue stumbled on ‘satisfactory’ a couple times before he managed to spell it out right.

“Why are you thinking about this now?”

“It would work. You could even—I mean, I don’t see why you couldn’t have a kid or two, if you applied yourself to it.”

“Like calculus,” Dick spat, perhaps more bitterly then he had intended.

“Hey, I’m trying to make a point here,” Nix retorted, tapping a finger on the tabletop.

Dick sighed. Nix was always full of points when he was drunk. Sometimes the easiest, or at least the fastest way to deal with it was letting him see the argument through, and just interrupt the natural spillover into the next thought.

“All right, Nix.”

“It’s simple. You need a girl you don’t need to fuck.” He opened his arms as if to say, _That’s it. I’ve done it._ “You’d have your life, she’d have her life. Kids if you can stomach the idea. Maybe a dog. Do you like dogs?”

Dick shook his head silently.

“Well, the dog is not important. It’s mostly to make the kids happy.”

“Anything else?”

Nix frowned. “You’re not listening.”

“I am, but you’re not making sense.”

“There’s thousands of couples like that. It’s the modern way.”

“Yeah, I bet you’ve known a few.”

Nix cradled the half-empty glass in his hand for a moment, then downed it quickly. “I’m trying to help,” he said darkly, as if displeased by Dick’s contrariness.

“I know,” Dick said, realizing that he didn’t have it in him to argue with Nix, not now—and on this particular topic, maybe not ever.

He put his palms flat on the table and pushed himself up. He walked past Nix’s chair to place the glass in the sink, and on his way back Nix reached out and held Dick’s wrist in a way that was mostly gentle, but also uncomfortably firm. Nix took Dick’s hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing the palm with soft, wet lips.

Dick looked down at him, feeling his throat clench. There was nothing sexual about the gesture, which made it all the more heartbreaking, because there was nothing sweet or comforting to it either. It was, if anything, a little hopeless.

“We’ll figure something out for you,” Nix promised to his hand. He might as well have been reading his fortune.

“Yeah,” Dick murmured, and then, “Come on, Lew. Let’s go to sleep.”

Nix dropped his hand. “Yeah, you head up first.”

Dick sighed and turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sloshing of Nix’s drink accompanying him on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should anybody care, Nix's car is a 1939 Cadillac Series 75 Convertible Coupe, a.k.a. this beautiful thing [here](https://rmsothebys.com/en/auctions/AZ18/Arizona/lots/r146-1939-cadillac-series-75-convertible-coupe-by-fleetwood/563531).

**Author's Note:**

> If you're still here, thanks for reading! As you noticed this isn't a real finale, more like a checkpoint in their relationship where things have been said and done that can't be unsaid and undone anymore. I have plans for the boys, but we will see how they pan out.  
> Until then, thanks for staying with me till the end and leave a comment if you feel like!


End file.
